The Fortunate One
by 1note
Summary: Abe encounters a woman who possesses the gift of healing. But the use of her power comes with a heavy price.
1. First Kiss

**A/N: **The characters or mostly movieverse influenced, though the story doesn't really take place before, during, or after any of the movies.

**Disclaimer: I do not own Hellboy, Abe, Liz, Manning, the BPRD, or any of Mike Mignola's cool ideas.**

*****************************************************************************

Rush hour. People stand about, waiting for the light to change, for the next available cab to bull their way towards, for the promise of a gap in traffic. They have survived another day's drudgery and all they can think about is getting home as quickly as possible so that they can kick of their shoes, sprawl in their La-Z-Boy recliners, and let the premium network package wash away their cares. Zaida shuffles amongst the milling crowds, a short, slight figure hidden in rumpled clothes, hood pulled low to obscure her features. None take any notice of her; she is invisible in the way that only the shabbily-dressed homeless can be. She wends her aimless path through the apathetic horde with no particular destination other than to find a sheltered place to curl up for the night. Perhaps she will try her luck at a church this time, or one of the charity shelters.

_Thump_.

The sound is felt more than heard over the roar of engines and the grumbles of weary commuters. Easy to dismiss.

_Thump_.

Louder this time, closer. Zaida feels the vibration beneath the soles of her ratty sneakers. She pauses, earning her a growl of impatience from the man behind her. The hairs on the back of her neck begin to stand on end. Something's about to happen.

CRASH!

The sidewalk explodes, scattering chunks of concrete and screaming pedestrians. Something solid whizzes past Zaida's ear, yet she doesn't flinch. She is too stunned by what she sees before her. While the suddenly lively men and women stampede in panic from the fresh crater in the pavement, two creatures thrash against each other in deadly combat. One of them is a man, in that he stands upon two legs, has two arms, and is shouting curses in English. He's huge, with broad shoulders draped in a tattered long coat. His skin is red. A long red tail flails about, sometimes striking his opponent with a whiplike _crack!_ But he is nothing compared to the beast threatening to tear him apart. The thing is gargantuan, all yellow scales and thorny tentacles. The thing screeches as the red man lands a blow with his massive stone club--no, Zaida realizes,it's his hand. A stone hand.

"Goddamnit!" the red man bellows, "Hurry up and die already!"

People elbow their way through the panicked throng. Men and women in dark business suits with guns drawn. Federal agents? Zaida's eyes widen in dawning comprehension. Of course! Hellboy. The notorious--some say mythical--demon who is part of some obscure government organization used to battle supernatural phenomena. Zaida never really believed in him, despite her own experiences. She didn't dare.

The agents begin to fire, careful not to hit their red-skinned comrade. This isn't difficult; the tentacled monstrosity is massive. Unfortunately, the bullets only seem to aggravate the creature further. It shrieks and hisses, tears at its foe with its bristling tentacles. A moving bramble. Hellboy is weakening.

"Liz!" someone shouts. Zaida's gaze is drawn to the voice's source. A tall, willowy figure clad in skin-tight black, his bare head devoid of hair. He has blue skin and large, dark eyes that blink rapidly with a transparent membrane. Red-fringed gills flare from the sides of his head. Zaida gapes. "Do it, Liz!"

A young woman with long brown hair holsters her weapon and raises both hands. A strange glow dances around her like a corona. The air grows thick with sudden heat and wavers before Zaida's eyes. Before she has a chance to process this the creature bursts into flame. Its anguished screech almost deafens her. She claps her hands over her ears and grimaces in pain, starts to back away as the monster's blazing tentacles whip and flail uncontrollably. One of the agents is unlucky enough to have moved within reach of one of those tentacles. A broad swipe and he is sent sailing over his fellows' heads to crash into the nearest wall and slump to the ground. The man is still horribly conscious, clutching his bleeding abdomen. His anguished screams rival those of the burning monster. Before she has a chance to consider her actions, Zaida rushes to the downed man's side, ignoring the all-too-immediate threat of the still-thrashing creature. The other agents cannot get past it to reach their wounded man. Hellboy, despite the flames eating away his overcoat, clings to the massive beast to prevent it from getting any nearer. The air is filled with crackles and shouts and the throat-clogging stench of burning meat. Zaida takes no notice of any of this. She focuses on the wounded man.

"Oh, god," he sobs, stoic professionalism forgotten, "Christ, please, I don't wanna die." Only his clutching hands prevent his insides from spilling onto the pavement. It is nothing Zaida hasn't dealt with before. She pushes back her hood, gently cups the man's face in her hands. He is so distracted by is fear and pain he doesn't notice her face, hardly reacts when she brings her lips to his.

Hellboy smashes his stone fist into the dying monster again and again. Flakes of charred flesh scatter and dance in the air like discarded autumn leaves. Yellow, odorous fluids spurt and bubble. The creature's yowls grow weak, then fade. Its entire body seems to deflate as it finally grows still. Liz lowers her hands and the flames enveloping her body vanish. Hellboy stands beside the smoldering corpse, panting in loud freight train chuffs. The edges of his filed horns glow with absorbed heat. He raises a trembling left hand, index finger extended, and points it at the unrecognizable mound of cooked flesh. "Take…that."

"Horne!" The agents rush forward. A slight figure rises unsteadily to its feet and darts off into the nearest alley, leaving the unconscious agent behind. Horne blinks awake as his companions reach him. He frowns in puzzlement, pulls the bloodied shreds of his ruined shirt apart to reveal the smooth, unblemished skin of his flat stomach. "The hell…?"

"Holy shit." One of the other agents touches the bared skin. "Not even a scar."

Abe Sapien stares down the narrow alley. "That person we saw beside him. We have to find them." He gestures to two of the agents to follow as he rushes into the shadowy opening. Liz radios in for a cleanup crew while Hellboy settles his tired bulk onto the curb. "I'll just sit here for a minute," he mumbles, then promptly conks out.

It would be a lie to say that Zaida is used to pain. One can never get used to pain, only learn to endure it. She stumbles through the maze of alleys and back roads, hands clasped over her stomach. She needs to stop, find someplace hidden away where she can sleep and recover, but the voices of the pursuing agents are right behind her. A sudden stab doubles her over with a groan. This wasn't just a near-disemboweling. There was something in those tentacle barbs, some kind of poison. She struggles against the overwhelming pain, tries to stumble a few more steps.

"Wait!" a voice calls, too close. Zaida grits her teeth and tries to force her legs to work, but her tired body betrays her and her knees give out. She falls, sliding against the brick wall that rasps against the coarse fabric of her old hoodie. The familiar lethargy envelopes her. She slumps to the ground, her vision darkening. The last thing she sees are the glossy shoes of the agents, and then the concerned eyes of the mysterious fish-man peering down at her.

"My god," someone utters from afar, "That face…"


	2. Awake & Wary

A/N:** The narrative of this story jumps back and forth between third person and first person, the first person perspective being Zaida's.**

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters. They belong to Mike Mignola, as you all well know.**

*****************************************************************************************

In the BPRD's infirmary the small figure of the unconscious woman lies on an exam bed, ragged clothes exchanged for a simple hospital gown. Her black hair is cropped close to her scalp. In her baggy street clothes it is easy to mistake her for an adolescent boy.

Every inch of her body, both exposed and concealed beneath the gown, is covered in a webwork of scars.

"It's not just external," Abe explains to Manning and his fellow agents, "Her X-rays are a fog of scar tissue. Every single internal organ has suffered multiple traumas over a long-term period, and all her bones show signs of healed multiple fractures."

"Christ," Manning exclaims, "What the hell happened to her?"

The fish-man shrugs. "Everything. Blunt force trauma, lacerations, exposure to all sorts of toxic materials and diseases. This woman should be dead a thousand times over."

"But she's…alright?" Liz asks, uncertain.

"Far as I can tell, she's the picture of health. Amazing, isn't it?" This coming from a man sporting gills and webbed hands.

Hellboy grunts. "Looks like she was run through a meat grinder." The others grimace at his tasteless remark.

"Any idea when she might wake up?" Manning asks.

"I can't say for sure," Abe replies, "I'm assuming she'll regain consciousness once her body recovers from…whatever it is she did to Horne."

"She healed him," Liz breathes, awed by the strange woman's power, so different from her own dreadful talent.

Abe shakes his head. "More like she absorbed his injury, then healed herself."

"Either way," Manning says, "She'll make one hell of an asset."

"Assuming she agrees to join the BPRD," the fish-man clarifies, much to the supervisor's annoyance.

"Make damn sure she does."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I lose consciousness in a dark, filthy alley. I wake in a hospital bed. Crisp sheets, white walls, in I.V. drip in the back of my left hand. For a brief moment panic sets in, but then I realize there are no straps holding me down, nothing in the I.V. but saline. I sit up, pull the needle from my hand. The tiny puncture closes instantly. I pull the thin blanket aside, swing my feet down from the narrow bed. The floor tiles are cold against my bare feet. I am dressed in a hospital gown. It's amazing how something can be both immodest and frumpy at the same time. I pull the fabric aside to find a line of new scar tissue spanning my stomach. As I watch, the angry red begins to fade, the swelling less pronounced. Won't be long before it's indistinguishable from the rest of the mess.

The door opens, startling me. I let the gown fall back into place and turn on shaky legs to confront my visitor. It's the fish-man. He's dressed in close-fitting shorts and a matching black tank top. His exposed skin gleams wetly in the harsh fluorescent light, indigo stripes over aqua-blue. Clear membranes slide over his large eyes, blink-blink. "You're awake!" he exclaims as if delighted and smiles. There's a thin gap between his otherwise smooth white…well, let's call them teeth. For some reason, I find this minor imperfection disarming. "Hello. My name's Abraham Sapien, but you can call me Abe. You're in the infirmary at the Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense."

There's a dozen questions I could ask, but the first one that springs into my mouth is, "What are you?"

His smile takes a wistful cast. "I don't know. I have no memory from before I was found." His head tilts, regarding me with the same open curiosity I show him. I know I should feel self-conscious, but I don't. Maybe it's because I see none of the revulsion and fear I've come to expect from people who see me. Or maybe it's because I don't know how to read expressions on his alien face.

"So, there are no others like you?" I ask.

He shrugs, a surprisingly elegant gesture on him. "None that I'm aware of. As far as anyone knows, I'm unique." He spreads his webbed hands. "But there are other unique individuals here, such as Hellboy, whom you've already seen in action, and Liz Sherman. She's a pyrokinetic. That means--"

"She starts fires with her mind." The corners of my mouth turn up. "I read the Stephen King novel."

He chuckles softly. "What's your name?"

I've used so many aliases over the years, but when that gentle voice asks me, I respond with honesty. "Zaida."

"Zah-yee-dah," he repeats slowly, as if to taste each syllable. "How long have you had this ability, Zaida?"

"Ability?"

"To heal."

I look away, smooth my rough hands over the gown's flimsy fabric. "Too long."

The silence stretches between us. The fish-man, Abe, is patient. He waits for me to break it. I finally do. "Am I allowed to leave?"

"Of course," he assures me, indicating our surroundings with a graceful wave of his webbed hand, "This isn't a prison. You're free to go whenever you wish. But we would like you to consider staying for a while, so that we might learn more about your ability--"

"_No." _I meet his dark eyes with my own, uncompromising.

"…okay." I've piqued his curiosity. I can read that much in his expression. My eyes wander to the hospital bed, I.V. rack beside it. Memories of other white rooms, other beds surface in my mind. This place is stifling.

"I'd like my clothes, please."

Abe nods, strides to a cabinet and retrieves my clothing, cleaned and neatly folded. I'm surprised they bothered to keep my old clothes at all, but grateful. They may be ugly, but they're sound. Just like me. As he hands over the garments his fingers accidentally brush against mine and I jerk away from his touch as if burned. Abe flushes a deeper shade of blue. "Sorry."

I shake my head, equally embarrassed. "It's alright. I'm just…not comfortable with being touched."

Something flickers across his face and I wonder if he thinks I've insulted him. I almost stammer an explanation, that I react that way when _anyone_ touches me, but he backs away and says, "I'll leave you to get changed."

"That's alright," I say a little too quickly, "You can stay. Just, y'know, turn around."

Abe blinks in surprise. "Are you sure?"

I swallow, nod. Irrational as it is, I'm afraid if he walks out that door it might never open again. Besides, I think sardonically, it's not as if my virtue's in any danger. With a slight shrug, Abe turns away and crosses his arms. As I shed the gown and begin to slip into my familiar clothes I hear him clear his throat. "So, if you'd like, one of our agents can give you a lift home."

His offer brings me a sense of relief mixed with suspicion. "I'm between homes at the moment." I pull up my pants, squeeze my feet into my tattered sneakers and tie the laces. When he hears the faint double clomp of my soles against the floor, he turns. Clad in well-worn clothes, hood thrown back, I know I look more boyish than ever. "I wouldn't mind a ride, though," I say.

"Very well. But first," he ventures a few steps closer and I realize just how tall he is when he peers down at me, perhaps searching my scarred visage for any signs of discomfort from his nearness, "could I interest you in a tour? Manning wants me to do everything possible to persuade you into staying. He's technically my boss, so I have to humor him." He smirks, and I'm charmed in spite of myself.

I tilt my head and return the fish-man's mischievous grin with one of my own. "Is that the only reason you're offering?"

Abe shakes his head. "No. I'm also rather enjoying your company. And…I'm curious about you." He seems almost shy when he admits this.

I smile, feeling the scars on my face stretch. "The feeling's mutual. Alright, then."

Grinning, Abe gestures to the doorway with a gallant sweep of his arm. "Shall we?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

This place is strange, wondrous, and far bigger than I could've imagined. Some of the less harmful artifacts Abe and his friends have collected over the years are displayed in glass cases like relics in a modern museum. Weird sounds reach my ears, sometimes haunting, sometimes frightening, but always far-off. Abe gives no reaction to them, just prattles on cheerfully on this and that. His enthusiasm amuses me. He seems to really enjoy what he does. I suppose he doesn't have much of a choice, considering.

I'm introduced to various agents, stony-faced men and women whose names I forget as soon as they're uttered. I'm also formally introduced to Abe's friends, who are impossible _not _to remember. The demonic Hellboy, the tip of his serpentine tail waving like a contented cat's, and Liz Sherman, the troubled pyrokinetic. I can see the years of friendship and shared dangers in the way the they interact. Three misfits who know that, when things go south, they can count on no one but each other to get through it. At one point Hellboy casually throws his left arm over Liz's shoulders and she leans against his bulk with a trusting smile. I feel a stab of envy at this display. That someone as monstrous-looking as Hellboy…

Abe continues the tour so smoothly it takes me a moment to realize just how abruptly we've parted from his friends. It's almost as if he senses my discomfort at their affectionate display.

He saves the best for last.

"And this is the library." He ushers me in with a sweep of his arm. I gasp. It's the most beautiful room I've ever seen. Oak shelves stand floor to ceiling, filled with row upon row of books. Leather wingback chairs are arranged beside reading lamps which add their soft glow to the chandelier's. The center of the floor is dominated by a tall statue perched upon a craggy peak, driving a long spear into the snakelike body of a hissing dragon. The air smells of leather, aged wood, and old paper. Everything is earth tones, reds and golds, which makes the far wall stand out all the more. My tattered sneakers trod upon the expensive carpeting as I approach the soft blue glow. The light ripples like magic and it occurs to me that what I'm looking at is a massive water tank. I turn to Abe who watches my actions silently.

"Yours?"

He nods, his expression a mixture of pride and unease. I understand. Like my scars, the tank is a reminder of how _other _he really is.

Enthralled by the soft swirl of light, I extend a tentative hand and run my scarred fingertips over the glass. It is warm to the touch. The water must be heated. "How long can you breathe out of the water?"

"Used to be only a few hours without my breathing apparatus," he replies, "but I've been working on acclimating myself to air. I can go several hours without much distress." He shrugs. "To be honest, there's no physiological reason why I shouldn't be able to breathe on land indefinitely."

"And psychologically?"

Another shrug followed by a rueful smile. "I don't feel as pressured in the water. I suppose it's because nobody can really follow me there."

"Not the happy member of the BPRD you seem to be?" I quirk a jagged eyebrow, only half teasing.

"This is not what Manning would want you to hear," he sighs, staring into his tank with a somberness he hasn't displayed before. "Sometimes…during one of my assignments that takes me to the ocean, I think I might dive as deep as I can go and just never come back." I can tell he is startled by this confession, perhaps always half-formed at the back of his mind and never uttered until now.

I smile wistfully. "I've always loved the ocean. I learned to swim even before I could walk. It's in the blood. My father was a fisherman…" My voice trails off as old memories surface; images I haven't thought about in many years. The sandy beach and crystal blue water, golden sunlight beating down from a sapphire sky. My father drags his dugout ashore, clad only in a simple breechclout. His teeth flash white against his bronze skin and his hair flies about in a wild mane as the breeze rushes in.

I shake myself out of my reverie and notice Abe blink-blink his eyes and jerk his outstretched hand to him, holding it against his chest as if ashamed. I wonder what this odd behavior means. Instead of asking, I wander over to the nearest bookshelf and let my eyes rove over the spines. Some of them are leather-bound, some fabric, all old, their spines creased from use. I'm glad they're not just for show; there's nothing more wasteful than a book that's never read. Some of the titles I recognize; old classics like _Pride and Prejudice_, _Don Quixote_, and _The Stars My Destination_. But there are many others I've never heard of, but sound occultish by their titles; _Bestiary of Mythical Animals_, _The Book of the Golden Dawn_, and _Tobin's Spirit Guide_, just to name a few. None of it's arranged in any particular order that I can tell. I grab a volume at random and, rather than try one of the leather chairs, lower myself onto the carpet and open the book atop my crossed legs. From the corner of my eye I see Abe fold his long body until he sits beside me.

"Can I ask you something?" his quiet voice intrudes as I try to focus on a woodcut of two small children dancing on the tongue of a giant yawning lion.

I shrug.

"You don't have to answer."

"Alright," I murmur.

"How did you heal Agent Horne?"

"I don't know." I turn the page. Another woodcut, this time of a semi-naked chubby woman bathing in a stream while demons peep over a nearby hedge.

Unperturbed, he tries again by rephrasing the question, "What did you do to him?"

I straighten a corner of the page, its edges as soft as cotton. "I kissed him."

"Kissed him?"

"I don't know why it happens. I see someone hurt or sick, I kiss them, and I take their hurt or sickness into me." I sigh and look up from the page, no longer bothering to pretend interest in the book. Instead I watch the light dancing in the watery tank, casting strange runes on the carpet, walls, and ceiling. "Sometimes I hear their thoughts, people they love, old regrets, fears. Mostly fears. I always have nightmares when that happens."

After a moment's thoughtful silence, Abe tells me, "I have the same problem, sometimes."

Now I look at him, surprised and more than a little wary. "You're telepathic?"

Abe shakes his head. "Not exactly. I just…know things."

"Uhuh. And what do you know about me?" I'm caught between curiosity and mild paranoia. Has he been rummaging in my thoughts without me knowing?

He's quick to reassure me. "Very little. I try not to pick up anything without permission."

"Very gentlemanly of you." I grimace at my words, knowing they've probably come off as sarcastic. Abe smiles to show he's not offended and I catch another glimpse of that little gap between his teeth. I shut the book, reach up to slide it back in place on the shelf, then draw up my knees and wrap my arms around them. A yawn pulls my uneven lips into an O and my stomach gives a faint growl. Abe's smile broadens a fraction.

"Hungry _and_ sleepy. C'mon," he rises in a single fluid movement and extends a hand to me, "I'll show you to the cafeteria."

I ignore his proffered hand and pull myself up to my feet, swaying only a little. Healing takes a lot out of me. Ideally, I'd be holed up in some out of the way shelter while my body finishes recovering. But that's not going to happen this time. "Thanks," I say and follow the tall fish-man out the door.


	3. Not Belonging

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters. **

*****************************************************************************************

The cafeteria is nearly empty when we enter. The few people there, all the same nondescript agents in their bland suits, barely give the fish-man a glance. When they look at me, however, I see the same expressions of discomfort and revulsion I've known my entire life. We end up sitting at a table far from them, much to everyone's mutual relief. Abe chooses egg salad. I opt for rice and steamed vegetables, food that's easy on the stomach. I shovel the food into my mouth, chewing mechanically, unable to taste it for my exhaustion. My other hand props up my head and my eyelids droop.

"You sure you won't at least stay the night?" Abe prompts, concerned.

I shake my head, though the thought of sleeping in an actual bed is tempting. Haven't slept in a bed since…

Abe hesitates, sets his fork down. "If you're afraid we might not let you go--"

"I'm afraid," I mutter, "that you'll find some way to convince me not to go." Now I raise my eyelids a fraction so that she can meet the fish-man's gaze. "I've been used before. Sometimes willingly. It never ends well."

"Used by whom?" Abe asks.

I return my attention to my plate. "Doesn't matter." I lift a forkful slowly to my mouth. In my weariness, my arm feels like a slab of granite. Abe's expression is one of sympathy.

"Stay here, just for tonight," he implores, "I promise nobody will try to talk you out of going. You can leave first thing in the morning. Our car will take you wherever you want to go."

A thought of a distant place drifts into my mind; one that's haunted me for many years. But I do not voice it. I sigh, knowing it's probably a mistake but unable to summon the energy to refuse. "Alright, I'll stay. Just for tonight." I stand, no longer hungry, and almost lose my balance. Abe gets to his feet and reaches out to steady me, only to draw his hand back when I flinch.

"Sorry."

"'S okay."

We leave our dishes on the table. I plod alongside the fish-man as he leads me from the cafeteria. I do not pay attention to where we go; it's all I can do just to stay upright. At one point Abe stops and opens a door to reveal a nondescript room with a bed and nightstand and another door which I presume leads to a bathroom. I stumble into the room and collapse onto the welcome bed without even bothering to kick off my sneakers. "G'night," I murmur, already drifting off.

"Good night." Abe shuts the door, cutting off the light from the hallway.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Manning strikes a match and lights his cigar, filling the air with pungent smoke. Abe sighs in resignation. No matter how many times he asks the man not to smoke in the library…

"Well?"

Abe blinks. "Pardon?"

Manning scowls in impatience. "Have you talked her into it?"

"I'm afraid not."

An angry huff and a cloud of smoke threatens to envelop the fish-man's head. "Why the hell not?"

Abe casually edges away from the smoke and spreads his hands as he tries to explain. "She has a powerful fear of exploitation. I think her ability's been abused more than once in her past."

"C'mon!" the man scoffs, "It's not exploitation. It's providing a valuable service to her country." He actually sounds like he believes this.

"I'm not sure she _has_ a country." The memory Abe unintentionally picked up from Zaida's thoughts comes to mind. The sandy beach, the clear blue water, the little girl running towards her father shouting joyously in words Abe doesn't understand.

Manning's braying voice butts in on his reverie. "Do you have any idea what someone with her ability could do for us? If we send her out with our agents on the more dangerous missions, we'd cut our casualties down by half. At _least!_" It's true; the mortality rate for the BPRD is exceptionally high, often because the things that go bump in the night tend to keep their dens in remote, hard-to-reach places far from such luxuries as emergency rooms. _How many times_, Abe asks himself, _did I or Hellboy or Liz watch helplessly as one of our guys bled to death or lingered for hour after agonizing hour from some incurable venom or massive internal trauma? How many would still be alive if Zaida had been there to kiss them well?_

Abe sighs. "I honestly don't think I'll be able to change her mind." It's obvious this is not what Manning wants to hear. The bald man's face takes on that stony expression that he wears when at his most obstinate.

"Do whatever it takes. Offer her whatever she wants. Promise her the goddamn moon if you have to, but don't take no for an answer. Got it?"

Abe draws himself up as he soberly responds, "With all due respect, sir, she has every right to refuse. No matter how valuable an addition she may be, if she decides not to join us we'll just have to scrape by like we always have."

Manning glares, but the fish-man remains unmoved. He snorts derisively. "You really think 'no' is an option for her any more than it was for you? Seriously, where the hell could you or the demon or the pyro go? Where could any of you ever possibly fit in, except here?" He turns towards the library door, puffing on his fat cigar. "You know as well as I do, Fish-Stick," he says over his shoulder, halfway out the door, "that 'no' doesn't exist for freaks like you." The door swings closed behind him, the click of its latch like a gunshot in the silence. Abe stands alone amidst his precious books, hands balled into fists, gills flared in the too-thin air.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's still dark outside when I wake; late night or very early morning. Instead of fighting the inevitable I rise from the bed and indulge myself in a shower. Afterwards, I wrap the soap bar in toilet paper and tuck it away in one of my pockets.

Part of me is so certain the door will be locked I almost gasp when the knob turns without resistance. The light in the hallway is dim. My footsteps echo in the emptiness. I feel like I'm walking in a haunted warehouse. But despite the fact that I seem to be the only one up and about, I know my movements aren't unnoticed. There are security cameras everywhere. They serve to reinforce my conviction to leave this place.

I was more than a little dazed when Abe took me on my tour of the facilities, but my feet remember where to go. Minutes later I enter the friendly confines of the library. The chandelier and reading lamps are dark. The only light comes from the perpetual glow of the water tank, casting strange rippling patterns on the silent room. Abe is swimming inside, dressed in nothing but his black skintight shorts. The grace he displays on dry land is nothing compared to the effortless way he glides through the clear water. I stand in the darkened library, mesmerized by the sight. After a moment he pauses and turns his dark eyes towards me. There's no way he should be able to see me in the dimness, but I know he's aware of my presence. He presses his hand against the glass, fingers splayed until the webbing is stretched taut. "Can't sleep?"

"Any more than you can, apparently."

He smiles ruefully. I step closer to the tank. "Sorry for intruding."

"It's alright. Not as if I was dwelling on anything pleasant."

I frown in concern. "What happened?"

Abe sighs, which is strange when I think of it, considering he's underwater. "Manning and I had a…disagreement."

"About me." It's not a question.

"He feels I could've done more to persuade you into staying. Having someone with your ability would be a great help to us. Not to mention a tremendous feather in his cap," he adds sourly. I get the impression their "disagreement" wasn't entirely civil. On impulse, I reach up and rest my palm against the glass, covering his. This feels safe to me; touching without touching. But now it is Abe who suddenly pulls away, his expression laced with guilt.

"What?" I ask, confused and a little hurt. Is this how he felt when I withdrew from his helping hand?

"Er, it's…" he balls his hand into a fist, "My ability's amplified through my hands. I don't know why."

"Oh." I let my own hand fall to my side as awkwardness sets in between us. "Um…what'd you see?"

"Nothing important." He seems fascinated by the floor beneath his lazily paddling feet. My own eyes wander off to the side where I notice a large circular opening in the tank's wall.

"What's that for?" I ask, pointing.

Abe, relieved for the change in subject, replies, "That's the access tunnel. It's how I get in and out of here." He indicates his surroundings. "It leads to a pool up on the next level where my quarters are."

I try to imagine what his quarters must look like and think of a giant koi pond. I find myself asking, "Does it have lily pads?"

Abe laughs, a full-throated guffaw that I never would've imagined him to have. My mouth splits into a wide grin in response.

"Why don't you come up and see for yourself?" he asks once he's regained his composure. He points to a set of spiral stairs. "Up there, down the hall, first door on the right."

I stare up at the floor above me, debating with myself. In the end, curiosity wins out. I clamber up the spiral staircase as Abe disappears through the circular tunnel. First door on the right, the knob turns easily in my hand. I step inside and gaze around in amazement. I don't expect the antique mahogany desk and the lamp with the green glass shade, the framed Van Gogh prints on the walls, or the expensive-looking sound system in the corner. I hear a muted _glug_ and turn to the oval-shaped raised pool situated where, in any other room, I would expect the bed to be. Abe's head emerges, large eyes blinking. His smile holds a touch of uncertainty. "Hi."

"Hi." I grin.

He rises from the pool, water sluicing off his bare torso. He looks far too beautiful to be real, and I'm suddenly conscious of my ugliness. I cross my arms and resist the urge to pull my hood up over my head. Abe steps out of the pool, water dripping through the grating on the floor, and approaches me with an air of nervousness that somehow lessens my own unease. "Well," he indicates the room with a sweep of his arm, "What d'you think?"

"It's not what I expected," I say lamely. My eyes are drawn to one of the prints; Van Gogh's _Starry Night_, dagger-thin mountain peaks and spirals of night winds. The artist's most hauntingly beautiful work. "I like it."

"And no lily pads."

"No," I laugh. And no cameras, either, I notice. The Bureau affords their charges that much privacy, at least. "So, this is home."

Abe shrugs. "I suppose, though I spend most of my time on assignment. Traveling to distant lands--"

"Battling bug-eyed monsters?" I quirk a ragged eyebrow.

"Sometimes. Hellboy does most of the grunt work, though. I mainly do research. Hence the library." He crosses to a small wardrobe, pulls out a tank top and a pair of slip-on shoes. I avert my eyes while he dresses, frightened by my reaction to his presence. Why did I agree to come to his quarters?

I try to distract myself. "Can I ask you a question?"

He looks at me, the skin of his bare arms, legs, and head agleam with moisture. "What?"

"Are you happy here?"

Instead of a casual shrug and a flippant "Sure," he gives it some thought. "I'm not _un_happy," he finally replies, "I have a purpose here. I have friends who, even if they aren't like me, at least know what it's like to not belong anywhere."

I think of Liz Sherman engulfed in flames, of Hellboy with his red skin and sinuous tail. "So instead of not-belonging alone, you're all not-belonging together."

He smiles. "Something like that."

I feel a stab of envy at this, then tell myself that my life may be lonely, but I can call it my own. Still, I can understand the temptation to stay here. It would be the closest I'll ever get to acceptance, to fitting in.

Abe closes the distance between us in two long strides. For a moment I'm afraid he might try to touch me, but he keeps his hands at his sides. I look up at him and am struck once again by how tall he is; I barely come up to his shoulder. "If you're ready to go," he offers, "I can call for one of our cars."

I lick my uneven lips and nod. It's best if I go now, before it becomes too difficult. I'm already getting far too attached to this strange person. He reminds me of how lonely I am.

Abe starts to make an after-you gesture towards the door when he pauses, hand outstretched. His posture stiffens in alarm.

"What--" Before I can react his long arms wrap around my waist and I feel my feet leave the floor. It happens so fast I don't have a chance to panic. Abe bounds across the room with me in his arms and leaps into the pool. It's been years since I've swum, yet my reactions remain acute. An instant before we hit the water my lungs draw in a deep breath. I've barely begun to register the situation when I hear a muted crash and suddenly the room is filled with shadowy figures. One of them peers over the lip of the pool and I make out the blurry image of a masked man in dark clothing brandishing some sort of automatic weapon. _Not feds!_ my brain screams unnecessarily. I begin to paddle furiously. Once Abe realizes this he releases his hold on me and I follow him down the curved tunnel. We emerge into the main tank and I see the library's overrun with more of those armed goons. One of them points his weapon at the tank only to have it slapped aside by another man who glares at him in annoyance. Unlike the others, this one hasn't bothered with a mask. My blood turns to ice; I recognize him. He approaches the glass, mouth twisted in that smug little grin I can't stand, and lifts one gloved hand in a jolly wave. I nearly expel all the air in my lungs as panic begins to set in. Then I hear a _clank_ and turn to see Abe opening a concealed hatch in the opposite wall. I feel a pull as the water rushes out and hurry to follow the fish-man through the emergency exit, leaving the smirking man behind me. This tunnel is narrower and completely dark. I feel a growing ache in my lungs and I'm afraid I might not be able to make it. But then I feel Abe's webbed hand wrap around my wrist and for once I do not try to pull away. I let him guide me upwards until my head breaks the surface. A loud gasp as my grateful lungs draw in the chilly air.

"You okay?"

I nod, though it's so dark I can't be sure he sees. "Fine," I wheeze.

"C'mon." I make out the faint outline of his silhouette as he heaves himself out of the water. I pull myself up onto a freezing concrete floor and rise shakily to my feet.

"Where are we?"

"Emergency escape route. Place's full of them." I hear the sound of Abe rummaging. There's a faint _crick_ and the area's suddenly filled with the green glow of a light stick. Abe is kneeling beside an open panel, some kind of emergency cache. He hands me the glow-stick, reaches into the cache, and pulls out a handgun. He checks to make sure it's loaded.

"This happen a lot?" I ask, feeling lightheaded from the shock of the last few minutes.

"Never." He stares at me with a sober expression and I know that he saw my silent exchange with the man in the library. He undoubtedly has all sorts of questions for me, but he doesn't waste time asking them now. Instead he rises from his crouch and hurries down the dark hallway, me trailing close behind. The glow-stick reveals narrow concrete walls and a low ceiling, also concrete. Abe has to hunch his shoulders to avoid hitting his head. As we near the tunnel's end, he slows to a more cautious pace, gun held before him. The exit is a hatchway above us. It reminds me of a submarine door. I help Abe turn the wheel which groans in protest. The hatch swings down to reveal a nondescript blackness. Abe pushes it aside; a simple cover to conceal the hatch from the outside. He peers through the opening, then climbs out once he judges it safe. I follow an instant later.

Predawn illuminates the eastern sky. The BPRD building's behind us; we're well beyond the gated wall. I can hear the sounds of gunfire and distant shouts. Abe's lips purse in anger.

"Where do we go now?" I whisper, though I doubt anyone else is near enough to hear us.

"There's a safe house not too far from here. We'll meet up with the others there." He takes the glow-stick from me and drops it back down the hatch. "That'll only give away our position out here."

My wet sneakers squish with each step on the dewy grass. I shiver in the predawn air. If the cold and the wetness bothers Abe, he gives no visible sign. We hurry through the early morning landscape as stealthily as we can, trying to ignore the sounds of battle behind us. That is when Abe asks the question I've been dreading. "Who is he?"

I swallow. "His name's Graice. He's a mercenary, though he calls himself an 'independent security contractor.'" I snort derisively.

Abe glances at me over his shoulder. It's not a friendly look. "He's after you, isn't he?"

"His employer is."

"Who's his employer?"

Before I can answer, gunfire erupts ahead of us. Clumps of grass spray up in our path. Abe grabs me and we dodge behind the nearest tree, which is far too narrow to offer adequate protection. Abe fires off a few shots. "There's better cover a few yards to the right. When I say now, make a run for it. I'll keep them occupied."

It sounds like a really shaky plan, but what other choice is there? I brace myself.

"Ready?"

"Y--" Loud snaps amid the trees cause my voice to die in my throat. They've already thought of this. Before I can utter a warning half a dozen black-clad men emerge brandishing long batons; they don't want to risk killing me. Abe swings his weapon around, manages to get off a shot before a baton strikes his wrist. One of the men falls, blood spraying from his neck. The gun falls from Abe's numbed hand. He grabs the man's arm before he can bring the baton down on the fish-man's head and the two of them struggle. He moves so fast. Several lightning kicks to the man's torso and Abe has the baton in his possession. He slams the bludgeon against the side of the first man's head, knocking him to the ground in a graceless heap. Abe whirls, dodging a swing from another baton, and strikes a second man in the knee with bone-crunching force. Whirls again, smashes his weapon across the bridge of someone's nose. There's the wet crunch of breaking cartilage and the masked man goes down clutching his bloodied face.

I'm so distracted by all this I don't realize someone's coming up behind me until I feel a pair of arms wrap around me, lifting me off my feet. I yelp in alarm, try to break the man's hold, but his grip is like iron. Instead, I reach up and behind until my questing fingertips graze against the fabric of the man's mask. Despite his attempts to twist away, I manage to find his closed eyelids with my thumbs. I push, trying not to think about the damage I'm inflicting on another person. The man howls and his arms around my waist slacken. I wriggle free, scramble to the tree that sheltered us seconds ago. I scramble up the narrow trunk, grab hold of the lowest branches and haul myself into its leafy boughs. I know it's a foolish attempt, but in my terror I can't think of anything else. When another mercenary tries to climb after me I bring the heel of my sneaker down on his forehead as hard as I can, knocking him back to the ground.

Abe continues to hold his own against the masked men. I notice a trickle of blue blood at the corner of his mouth where someone got in a lucky hit. It can't have been skill, because he's so fast, so vicious, the other's just can't touch him. _And he's just the researcher,_ I think, fighting back a hysterical giggle.

That's when the newcomer arrives. He's smaller, more slightly built than his compatriots. Instead of a baton his outstretched hand bears a boxy contraption that I think at first is some kind of weird gun. But when he pulls the trigger and I see the two silver darts shoot forward, trailing wires, I realize the thing in his hand is a taser. Abe doesn't even get a chance to scream. The twin probes strike his chest and he instantly collapses, flopping bonelessly as the crackling sound of electricity fills the air. I watch in horror as the man continues to hold the trigger down, watching avidly as Abe convulses on the wet grass.

"Stop!" I shout, but the man ignores me. Abe thrashes, heels drumming on the ground, head thumping continuously until I'm afraid he'll cave in his skull. A terrible sound emerges from the taser-wielding man, a high-pitched giggle that summons the image of a boy who burns ants with a magnifying glass and sets stray cats on fire. He isn't going to stop until Abe's electrocuted to death or the battery runs out, whichever comes first.

"_Stop it!"_ I scream helplessly.

"You heard the lady." Graice emerges from the surrounding gloom as if by magic. "Knock it off, Clown."

The man deactivates the taser with obvious reluctance. Abe mercifully goes limp. His chest rises and falls in shallow breaths while his gills flare on either side of his head. I cling to my awkward perch, relieved beyond words to see him still alive. Graice stares at the gasping fish-man with mild curiosity, then turns his attention to me. He shakes his head in mock disappointment.

"Suzie, Suzie, Suzie," he chides, "Y'know, this all could've been avoided if you'd just stayed put like a good little pup. You really gave us a run for our money. Well, not _our_ money." He chuckles.

I crouch in the thin branches of the tree, too frightened to even scowl at him.

Graice beckons to me. "C'mon down, kiddo. We ain't got all morning."

The sounds of battle are drawing closer. Soon the feds will be here. Maybe if I stall long enough…

"Suzie," Graice heaves a put-upon sigh, "Don't piss me off now. If you're not outta that tree by the time I count to five, I'm gonna let Clown here gut your scaly pal right in front of you."

The giggling man called Clown pulls out a wicked knife, eyes agleam with eagerness. This isn't a bluff; neither of these men are prone to bluffing.

"One."

Clown kneels beside the helpless Abe, waving the naked blade in front of him like a chastising finger.

"Two."

The tip of the blade is placed against a vestigial belly-button. My chin begins to tremble.

"Three."

I start to climb down.

"Atta girl." Graice smirks triumphantly. None of his men move to help me down; a meager sop to my pride. I drop the last couple of feet and land with a muted squish, my sneakers still drenched from my earlier swim. Was that only minutes ago? Graice extends his hand towards me. "C'mon, now. The old lady's been worried _sick_ about you." Again, that smarmy chuckle. Clown adds his own nerve-wracking giggle as he stands and sheaths his knife.

My feet feel like they're made of lead as I force myself to go with them. As I pass the sprawled form of Abe, I look at his blank open eyes and whisper, "I'm sorry."

The sun peers over the horizon, flooding the world with golden light. A beautiful morning.


	4. Wavelength

**A/N: **The song quoted in this chapter is "Suzanne" by Leonard Cohen.

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.**

*****************************************************************************************

I look over my shoulder at Abe's helpless form sprawled on the grass. Some of the masked men linger behind us, looking down at the fish-man with what I suspect are speculative gleams in their eyes. I turn to Graice. "Don't let them hurt him," I'm ashamed of the pleading sound to my voice.

Graice waves a negligent hand. "Relax, kiddo. You're the only freak I'm interested in. But, if it makes you feel any better…" He touches his throat and mutters something; he's wearing one of those sub-vocal communication devices. "There. I've just let the boys know your little guppy's off limits."

I relax a little on hearing this. Graice may be a bastard, but he's never lied to me. He has no reason to.

There are numerous dark SUV's parked beneath the cover of the trees. I am shoved into the backseat of one of them. The one called Clown squeezes in beside me while Graice and another man get in the front of the vehicle. As we begin to drive away, Clown pulls his mask off. He's younger than I expected, his features almost angelic. He looks at me with his oversized blue eyes and grins. I half expect his teeth to be filed into points, but they are smooth and perfectly straight. He stares at my scarred face and giggles. "Rag doll."

I scowl, turn my head to stare out the window.

"Don't mind Clown," Graice says from the front passenger seat, "Adrenaline makes him a bit giddy."

I do my best to ignore them both, to blot out the memory of what's just happened and let my mind wander. It's a talent I've cultivated over the years. Sometimes I think it's the only thing that keeps me sane. I watch the trees whisk by in the growing light of dawn and don't let myself think about what I'm returning to.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

He can't move. Can't breathe. He lies on the cold, wet ground with his nictitating eyelids half closed and his gills flared and wheezes as his body fights to draw in the nonexistent water. He's going to suffocate.

_No_, the tiny part of his mind that's still coherent snarls, _You've got lungs as well as gills, damn it. Use them. Ignore your gills and concentrate on drawing in the air._ He forces himself to imagine his lungs, used simply for buoyancy when underwater. Breathe in, chest rises, breathe out. Imagine those precious O2 molecules saturating the air. Pretend they can be felt, that they thicken the air which his piscine instincts scream is too insubstantial. In and out.

His muscles feel like wet spaghetti. Senses numb. He hears the cotton-woolly sound of human voices around him, none familiar, save Zaida's. Even disabled as he is, Abe can feel her distress. Footsteps, the blurred shadows of passing legs. They're leaving. They're taking Zaida. Where? Who wants her so badly to be so reckless as to have a small army attack a government facility? Abe's fingers twitch. He focuses all his willpower to a single point; his outstretched hand. The fingers spread with agonizing slowness as the sounds of orderly retreat grow distant. He doesn't have the strength to sift through the myriad images and sensations that suddenly flood his mind. All he can do is hold on to them and hopefully find some clue later on when he's had a chance to recover.

Hours seem to pass. Pins and needles attack his extremities. He begins to move his arms and legs feebly, like a clockwork doll winding down. Sounds reach his ears; short, terse sentences whose meanings he can't discern, followed by a more familiar bellow. "The hell d'ya _mean_, you don't know? How can a whole goddamn army just up and disappear!"

Hellboy. Abe gurgles ineffectually. He hears the muted crunch of hard soles on the grass, followed by a much nearer shout, "Man down!"

The next thing he knows, he's surrounded by dark-suited feds and the concerned faces of Liz and Red. One of the agents plucks something from Abe's chest, holds it up; a small silver dart with a wire trailing from its end. "They used a taser."

"Bastards," Liz snarls, eyes quite literally blazing. She kneels beside her friend and takes his limp hand in both of her own. "Can you hear me, Blue?"

Abe chokes, forces his head to loll until he faces her. The clear membranes over his eyes slide back and he stares up. "Zaaah…"

"Don't try to talk. The medics 'll be here any second." She squeezes his hand in what she hopes is a reassuring gesture.

The fish-man's head rises a fraction of an inch. He gazes at Liz imploringly, mouth working. She bends down until she can feel his breath against her ear.

"T-took her…Za…Zaida…"

Liz's eyes widen. Abe falls back, exhausted, wheezing as his lungs rebel against him. The medical technicians choose that fortuitous moment to arrive and load the gasping fish-man onto a stretcher. As they watch their friend being carried off, Hellboy asks the young woman, "What'd he say?"

"He said they took Zaida."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

It's obvious when Manning arrives that he's just woken up. On the plus side, this means he doesn't have the energy to yell. He slouches in his seat at the head of a long rectangular table. Hellboy, Liz, and a very shaky yet stubbornly insistent Abe are among the other agents seated around the conference table.

Manning cuts to the chase. "How the hell could we get attacked in our own top-secret maximum-security facility?"

"They compromised our security system, sir," Agent Barnes states coolly.

"_How?"_

Barnes pulls out a manila folder. The federal government's obsessed with those plain brown folders, Manning thinks in a moment of uncharacteristic reflection. Facts and charts and photographs, sifted and categorized, typed up on color-coded paper, stamped and signed in triplicate. They appear in mountainous stacks on his desk as if by magic only to later vanish into the bureaucratic ether, never to be seen again.

Manning takes the folder and flips it open. The first items to confront his eyes are two photos, one the grainy printout taken from the BPRD's own security camera, the other a soulless waxen-featured headshot no doubt used as a passport image. Both show a forty-something man with dark hair going gray at the temples, mouth twisted in a perpetual smirk. Manning reads the name on the page underneath: Leslie Graice.

"He is what's euphemistically known as a 'freelance security consultant,'" Barnes explains, "Reputedly one of the best. His services cost more than our annual budget."

"That's not saying much," Hellboy mutters under his breath. Liz nudges him with her elbow and gives him a hush-up look.

"So who hired him to nab the healer?"

The agent hands over another folder. "Cora Sedgwyck."

Manning's eyebrows rise towards his nonexistent hairline. "Sedgwyck, as in Sedgwyck Ventures?"

"The very same," Barnes nods. Sedgwyck Ventures, the fourth most powerful multinational conglomerate on the planet with a net worth estimated in the _trillions_. Think of any industry, from food production to oil to the development of high-tech educational toys, and chances are the Sedgwyck logo is present. It is also counted among a sizeable portion of the political powers-that-be as a highly valued member of their constituency. More than a few senators owe their successful elections to Sedgwyck's generous backing.

Manning swallows, throat suddenly dry. He opens the second folder to see a glossy photo of an elderly woman in a wheelchair, thin and frail, head crowned in a halo of gossamer wisps. The smile gracing her thin lips seems warm and maternal, yet her obsidian eyes reveal an emotional void. Manning shudders. Liz and Hellboy crane their necks, the latter with much less effort, to peer at the upside-down image. Abe remains slouched in his chair, still too weak to do more than keep himself from sliding onto the floor.

"Cora Sedgwyck," Barnes recites crisply as if he's memorized the entire file (and for all they know, he has), "Born April 18th, 1907 to Ethel and Joseph Collins. Married oil baron Marcus Sedgwyck at the age of sixteen and bore one son, Harold. Inherited her husband's oil company upon his death in nineteen--"

"Could we skip over to this century?" Hellboy interrupts. Manning throws him an annoyed look, but doesn't protest.

"Intel says Ms. Sedgwyck was in unusually good health for her age up until approximately five years ago," Barnes continues smoothly, "Then her medical history took an abrupt nosedive. In the last five years she's had her gallbladder removed and two organ transplants: pancreas and kidney. Then three weeks ago she was diagnosed with leukemia."

"Jesus!" Manning exclaims, "No wonder she wants the healer."

_And no wonder she had her hired thugs take the huge risk of attacking the BPRD headquarters_, Liz thinks, _she's desperate_.

Abe, voice still reedy from his ordeal, speaks up, "You said she was unusually healthy before then?"

Agent Barnes nods. "According to her medical history, yes. In fact, up until five years ago when she had her first heart attack, Ms. Sedgwyck didn't even see her doctor for her annual checkups for well over a decade."

Abe, Liz, and Hellboy exchange suspicious looks.

"Sounds like the old lady had some alternative healthcare." Hellboy quirks an eyebrow.

"There's more," the agent adds, "Andrew Sedgwyck, Cora's great-grandson and only known living relative, has cystic fibrosis. However, until recently, he's been miraculously asymptomatic."

"Lemme guess," Hellboy's eyes turn upward in apparent thought, "'Recently' means five years ago."

Barnes nods.

Manning decides to stop pretending to read and lays the now closed folders on the tabletop. He rests his elbows on the table, laces his fingers. "Any other pertinent information, Agent Barnes?"

"Yes, sir. Ms. Sedgwyck's private accounts began to receive numerous, sizeable deposits from various sources, most of them from untraceable accounts in Switzerland or the Cayman Islands. At the same time, various wealthy individuals or their relatives began to visit Ms. Sedgwyck's estate, though they rarely stayed longer than an hour and never made a second visit. All of them were known to suffer some sort of severe medical condition…until they left Sedgwyck's estate, that is. However, these transactions and subsequent visits abruptly ceased--"

"Five years ago," several voices conclude.

"Exactly."

It's all too easy to imagine: Several years ago Zaida and her magical kisses come to the attention of Cora Sedgwyck, owner and CEO of Sedgwyck Ventures, whose sole remaining relative and heir to her estate is afflicted with an incurable genetic disease. They strike a deal; Zaida keeps young Andrew alive and her days of aimless wandering and hand-to-mouth survival are over. Then, over time--hey, why not--Cora starts using Zaida for her own growing list of old-age ailments. Time passes. Cora's peers start wondering how her great-grandson is able to run around playing sports with his friends when he should be drowning in his own fluids, not to mention why the old lady's still so spry after a century's worth of birthdays, and the Sedgwycks' little secret somehow gets out. Maybe some desperate oil baron or computer mogul makes an offer, which gives ol' Ms. Sedgwyck the idea for hew newest enterprise. See, monetary wealth is like heroin; the more you take, the more you gotta have. Which explains why Cora Sedgwyck thinks, why give something away when plenty of well endowed men and women were desperate enough to pay whatever exorbitant amount she asks for? So, just like that, Zaida finds her ability being whored out to the highest bidder.

Maybe she doesn't know this. Maybe ol' Cora keeps the payments a secret, or outright lies about it. If so, the secret soon gets out, and Zaida is _not_ happy. So she leaves.

"No wonder she didn't want to stay here," Abe murmurs, "She was afraid history would repeat itself, that we would abuse her gift."

Manning opens his mouth, no doubt to protest the Bureau's intentions, when Liz cuts him off.

"I'm in."

Manning blinks, closes and opens his mouth a couple of times as his brain struggles to switch gears. "Wha?"

"The rescue op," Liz clarifies, "Count me in."

"Same here," Hellboy adds with a wave of his stone hand.

"_Rescue?_" the man spouts incredulously, "Where you guys sitting in on the same briefing? The woman's got God knows how many senators in her pocket, not to mention enough money and resources to buy and sell us all ten times over, and you wanna go busting into her mansion like a bunch of--of--" He flaps his hands, unable to think of an appropriate metaphor. "Crazy people!" he finishes lamely.

The demon bristles. "Hey, _she_ attacked _us!_"

"Oh, like we can prove that! This Graice guy could've been hired by anybody, and you can be damn sure Sedgwyck's been covering her tracks. And even if there _is_ proof, we'll never see it because she'll have a legion of cutthroat lawyers protecting her!"

Hellboy's mouth twists into a sneer of contempt. "Figures you'd worry more about your own ass than rescuing a kidnapped woman."

Manning's face reddens. He stands, leans over the table, but his posture his not as threatening as he intends as he has to turn his eyes upward to meet Hellboy's yellow gaze; even _sitting _the guy's taller than the average person. "This argument's pointless," Manning hisses, "You know why? 'Cause we don't even know where she's being kept, and we're not ever going to know. Sedgwyck's gonna make sure of that. Those kinds of resources, that much political influence…that healer might as well be on the goddamned moon."

Hellboy plants his mismatched fists on the table, ready to launch himself from his chair. Liz's own face is set in an obstinate scowl as she opens her mouth to add her own heated opinion. The other agents in the room ever-so-slightly lean away from the table as if the rising anger in the room is a tangible heat (which, with a pyrokinetic present, is not entirely unfeasible), when something unexpected happens which defuses the situation. Abe stands, carefully pushes in his chair, and slowly walks out of the room. The three diverse figures at the end of the table, frozen in their aggressive postures, stare after the retreating fish-man with identical looks of utter bafflement.

"Where the hell's he going?" Manning asks.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Abe closes his eyes, folds his legs into the lotus position, and lets his body drift down to the bottom of the tank. Though his expression is serene, his mind is a-roil with the images and thoughts he picked up while he lay semiconscious on the ground. There's a mishmash of impressions, some barely more than flickers, taken from all the individuals that'd surrounded him. He pokes through the jumble, searching for a single nugget that might lead him that much closer to finding Zaida.

…_the boy who will one day be called Clown uses his father's pocketknife to dismember a stray dog. The stink of piss and blood, earsplitting howls and manic giggles…_

…_young man kisses his girlfriend goodbye. "Just a coupla days…"_

…_seated at a bar, watching a haggard old woman vomit into her beer glass…_

…_little girl peers up at her father, smiling innocently…_

…_music…"Suzanne takes you down…"_

Suzanne? That mercenary, Graice, called her Suzie. An alias, no doubt. Perhaps one she used the entire time she lived with the Sedgwycks. Abe focuses on that musical refrain, follows the thread of sound to its source. A memory. He lets it draw him in. He looks through Zaida's eyes…

There is golden sunlight filtering through the leaves of three hundred year old oaks. There is a breeze riffling her clothes, caressing her scarred face. There is iced tea and mandarin oranges in cream. There is music.

Zaida and Cora are on the veranda, seated at the wrought-iron patio set, enjoying the perfect weather. Cora's antique gramophone sits on a small table behind them, music drifting from its trumpet. A slow, lazy song for this slow, lazy day. The lyrics make the two women smile in shared amusement.

"How appropriate," Cora chuckles drolly, then raises her aged yet still clear voice as she sings along:

"_Suzanne takes you down to her place near the river,_

_You can hear the boats go by_

_You can spend the night beside her._

_And you know that she's half crazy_

_But that's why you want to be there_

_And she feeds you tea and oranges_

_That come all the way from China…"_

Zaida/Suzanne laughs, plucks a mandarin wedge from her bowl, dripping with cream, and pops it into her mouth [while in his tank Abe licks his lips, tasting the memory of the fruit]. She breathes in the scent of oranges, of carefully tended flowerbeds, of--very faintly--the clear waters of the river. She hums along with the tune and Cora's singing.

"_And you want to travel with her,_

_And you want to travel blind_

_And you know that she will trust you_

_For you've touched her perfect body with your mind."_

Abe blinks as the memory fades. For the first time since the attack, he is elated. There on the edge of his thoughts, as tenuous as spider silk, a link to Zaida's mind. He knows where he can find her.


	5. Compelled

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.**

*****************************************************************************************

The estate's hardly changed since I left. Graice and his goons arrange themselves around me as I exit the car and accompany me up the broad steps to the main entryway. If I tilt my head and squint, I can almost convince myself they're an honor guard rather than my jailors. One of the estate's many servants opens the door for us. I step through into the elaborate foyer with its black-and-white checkered marble floor and Greco-Roman pillars topped with marble vases holding sprays of dried flowers. Cora Sedgewyck is there to meet me, seated in a top-of-the-line electric wheelchair with an oxygen tube in her nose. Behind her and to either side stand a manservant and a private nurse. I hardly recognize her, she's become so frail.

"Suzanne," she beams and holds out her blue-veined hands to me, "You've been so greatly missed." She sounds as if I've returned from an extended vacation.

Despite my turmoil, I step closer and take the old woman's hands. Beneath the subtle aroma of her expensive perfume I detect the yellow stink of prolonged illness. My lips begin to tingle. "How's Andy?"

"Holding on," she replies soberly, "as am I. But all shall improve now that you've returned." She pulls me closer, her grip weak enough I could easily slip away, but I do not. Her dark eyes bore into me. She tries to draw me down to her, but I resist.

"Andy first, if he wants it."

The welcoming smile fades from her lean features, her dark eyes grow cold. "I have months left, if that much."

"You can wait a few more hours," I answer, unfazed by her withering look.

"Very well." She releases my hands, turns to Graice who leans casually against the wall. "Accompany her."

"Sure thing. Riggs," he snaps his finger at one of the goons, "Take Suzie down to Andrew's room."

"No," Cora's icy tone interjects, "It was your lax security that let her get away from us in the first place. _You_ will accompany her, and you shall not leave her side at any time."

Anger flashes across his face and nearly overshadows his perpetual smirk. Still, not even Graice is arrogant enough to disobey the old woman's orders. He shrugs nonchalantly, straightens from his slouch. "Fine. C'mon, Suzie."

I navigate the mazelike halls of the mansion's interior to Andrew's door. Though I know to expect the worst, the sight of him still brings a gasp from my lips. The now twenty-year-old young man is withered scarecrow-thin with dark circles around his too-large eyes. He lies encased in a clear plastic oxygen tent, the hospital bed supporting his upper body in a reclined position to ease the strain on his flooded lungs. On seeing me enter his heavy eyelids raise slightly and the phlegmy wheeze in his chest grows more pronounced; the only reactions his weakened body can muster. I approach the bed with a sad smile, ignoring Graice who positions himself by the door with an undoubtedly bored expression.

"Caught you," Andrew rasps as I seat myself on the edge of his bed.

I nod. "Five years. Not a bad run." With my guard present, I cannot ask the question that hangs between us; does Cora know it was Andrew who helped me escape? As if he hears my thoughts, the boy shakes his head, the movement so slight it's barely noticeable. I smile in relief. Family or not, Cora Sedgwyck's punishment would be harsh indeed if she knew.

I've known Andrew since he was four, sallow and thin, coughing and wheezing like an old man with pneumonia. Cora was desperate to see her final blood relative survive, and I was tired of my constant wandering. The situation seemed so ideal. Never again would I have to scrounge through the garbage for scraps of food or huddle under cardboard shelters while rain and snow drizzled down. Never again would I have to hide my scars. I could finally walk freely among others as myself and live a life of luxury. Cora and I got along well. I convinced myself that we were friends, but friendship requires equality, and Cora sees no one as her equal. In truth, I was more like a favored pet to her. She indulged most of my wishes as long as I behaved myself and did what I was told. When others began to arrive, men and women with expensive clothes and desperation in their eyes, I let myself believe it was kindness that motivated Cora to bring them to me. I repaired their damaged organs, took away their cancers, and did not question why only the wealthy were brought to me. Then something happened that shattered my fragile illusions.

Cora and I sat on the veranda drinking iced tea and listening to her old Victrola gramophone. The sun shone down from the sapphire sky, a cool breeze hissed through the low-hanging branches of the ancient oak trees, and the gardeners knelt in the immaculate flowerbeds pulling weeds and aerating the soil. Cora sang along with the music until she flubbed the words and the two of us burst into laughter. It was the last good moment between us.

One of the gardeners collapsed. The others ran to his side, turned him over. I leapt from my chair and hurried to the frightened group, pushed the khaki-uniformed men aside and knelt beside the fallen gardener. His face was pale, covered with a thin sheen of sweat, his breathing shallow. I bent down to press my lips to his--and was abruptly yanked away.

"What're you doing?" I cried, struggling in the grip of one of Cora's manservants.

"An ambulance is on its way," the old woman informed me, "There's no need to inconvenience yourself."

_Inconvenience myself?_ "He might not last that long. Let me help him!"

Cora regarded the dying man impassively, turned to address her man. "Take her inside."

I struggled as I was forcibly carried back into the house and deposited in my room. When I tried to leave, the man locked me in. Long minutes later I heard the ambulance's siren, but when the vehicle departed moments later, there was only the muted thrum of its engine. There was no hurry now. I remained locked in my room until evening when I was released for dinner. I stormed into the dining room, my rage bringing a startled gasp from Andrew and cool appraisal from Cora.

"Why didn't you let me help him?" I shouted, "I could have saved that man!"

Cora smoothed her napkin on her lap, took a sip from her water glass. "Wetbacks like him are a dime a dozen. It would've been a waste of your talent."

My scarred lips peeled back in a snarl. "_I_ decide whether it's a waste or not."

"But you don't," she smiled thinly, black eyes devoid of sympathy, "For the last ten years you have placed your gift in my hands, allowed me to do with it as I see fit. There are plenty of well endowed, desperate people willing to pay whatever I ask to see their tumors vanish, their children's defunct hearts miraculously repaired."

I felt the blood drain from my face. "They paid you?"

She didn't even try to feign embarrassment. "I did not become one of the wealthiest women in the world by giving away what I could easily sell."

I shook my head, astounded by her heartlessness and my own foolishness for not letting myself see this sooner. "I'm not staying for this." But then Andrew, who'd been silently gawping at our argument the entire time, coughed. My gift does miraculous things, but it cannot cure genetic disorders. All I can do in cases like Andrew's is heal the symptoms for weeks or even months at a time, but they always resurface. I saw the spark of victory in Cora's eye, for she knew then as well as I did that she had me. I couldn't abandon Andrew to die a lingering death.

So I remained in my gilded cage and continued to heal those brought to me. One would think I'd refuse, but I'm simply not capable of that. When confronted with someone deathly ill or wounded I am compelled to heal them. Only they have the power to deny my gift. I couldn't refuse; couldn't escape.

Then one day, when business required Cora overseas, Andrew came into my room and asked me to follow him. "To where?" I asked.

The teenager smiled. "It's a surprise."

Curious, I went with him. We crept past Graice and his men--complacently engaged in a game of cards--and out one of the side doors. Andrew led me through the expansive grounds of his mother's estate until the mansion vanished from our sight behind a hill, then the boy reached into his pocket and pulled out a thick roll of cash. My eyes widened in amazement as he handed it to me. "W-what's this for?"

"You're gonna need it."

"For what?" I asked in growing suspicion.

He shook his head. "You're miserable here. If you don't go now, while Nana's away--"

"Andy," I gazed up at his eyes, filled with the compassion his great-grandmother lacked. When did he get so tall, I wondered. "If I go, you'll die."

He smiled sadly. "I've already lived longer than the doctors expected. You've given me more than I could've asked for. Let me do this for you."

Gratitude and sadness warred within me. I embraced him, an intimacy I usually shy from, and we parted without another word, Andrew strolling back towards the mansion, I walking out into the open countryside and an uncertain future.

Five years of freedom, now ended.

I reach out to unzip the oxygen tent. Andrew raises a skeletal hand and opens his mouth as if to protest, but the words do not come. He lets his hand fall and turns away, shamefaced. The clear plastic crinkles as I push it aside. "It's okay," I whisper as I cradle his face in my hands, "There's no shame in wanting to live." My lips burn as I draw near. A single tear falls from Andrew's eye. Then our mouths connect and I feel his sickness overcome me.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_And Jesus was a sailor_

_When he walked upon the water_

_And he spent a long time watching_

_From his lonely wooden tower_

_And when he knew for certain_

_Only drowning men could see him_

_He said "All men will be sailors then_

_Until the sea shall free them,"…_

I awaken to the song echoing in my head, so clear I think at first the Victrola's been set up nearby, but the room is silent. I open my eyes to find myself lying in my old bed in my old room, everything unchanged from when I left. The smell of food entices me to sit up and I see a small table set up with a covered dish waiting for me. I rise shakily from the bed and walk carefully to the table, lower myself into the chair and lift the lid off the dish. Chicken and brown rice, fresh asparagus with butter, and peach wedges in a separate bowl. Cora has always fed me well. Of course, the better I eat, the faster I recover from my healing. She wants me up and about as soon as possible so that I can take care of her. This knowledge brings a sour aftertaste. I eat, and the soft tones of "Suzanne" drift into my mind, completing the verse that awoke me.

…_But he himself was broken_

_Long before the sky would open,_

_Forsaken, almost human,_

_He sank beneath your wisdom like a stone._

The words remind me of Abe. The image of him as I last saw him, motionless on the ground, haunts me. I hope that he's alright. I hope his friends weren't harmed during the attack.

I hear the click of the door latch and Graice enters the room. "You done yet? The old lady wants you."

_I'm sure she does._ I set my unfinished peaches aside, dab my lips with the napkin, fold it neatly and set it down beside the empty plate. A perverse satisfaction comes from seeing Cora's lackey fidget at my slowness. I stand, smooth the wrinkles from my shirt, and stroll unhurriedly towards the door. Graice growls and takes hold of my arm to hurry me. I squirm away from him. "Don't ever touch me."

"Oh! Yes, ma'am," he bows. I ignore his sarcasm and exit the room. The steady clomp-clomp of heavy boots lets me know he's right at my heels. "She's in the drawing room."

Cora sits before the fireplace in her wheelchair, a shawl draped over her shoulders and a blanket across her lap. I can't help but think she's taking a risk sitting that close to a fire with an oxygen tank beside her. She turns her chair to face me. "You've recuperated sufficiently." It sounds like an order rather than a question.

"Is Andrew better?" I ask.

"Of course. Your gift has never failed us." She stares at me. "Come here."

"I'm still tired from Andrew's healing," I protest, but know from the hardness in her expression that it's useless.

"You're well enough," she snaps, and I see the desperation in her pitiless eyes. "Come here this instant."

Despite my misgivings at using my gift again so soon, I step closer and kneel in front of the wheelchair. Cora grabs my head with trembling hands and pulls me towards her. I see the hunger in her eyes as I reluctantly kiss her pallid lips.

Everything's a fog after that. I dimly recall Graice lifting my limp form into his arms and Cora rising from her wheelchair, casting blanket and shawl aside and yanking the oxygen tube from her nose with a grimace of disdain. Then there is only darkness.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Abraham Sapien sits at a computer in the BPRD headquarters. Images taken from various global positioning satellites flicker across his screen as he lets his instincts guide him. He can feel the delicate link to Zaida's mind like a faint tug on his thoughts. Tiny flashes of memory and sensation come to him from time to time: a heaviness in the lungs, a sense of overwhelming exhaustion, the taste of peaches. But strongest of all is the slow, somber tune of the song that, unbeknownst to him, marks her last happy moment before disillusion struck. The song that helped him establish the link with her.

"_And you want to travel with him,_" Abe murmurs under his breath, "_And you want to travel blind. And you think maybe you'll trust him. For he's touched your perfect body with his mind._" Webbed fingers dart across the keyboard. He feels excitement as he senses his target drawing near. The stream of photographs slows as he narrows his search. Abruptly, he halts the flow of images. There on the screen is the overhead view of a vast estate. Abe leans in close to gaze at the landmarks, comparing them with the memory taken from Zaida's thoughts. There is no doubt in his mind, he's found the place she's being held. Abe leans back in his chair, smiling with relief.


	6. Rescue

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.**

*****************************************************************************************

Manning shakes his head. "I can't authorize this."

Abe's expression hardens. "They kidnapped her while she was in BPRD custody. They attacked a federal institution. How can you not give the go-ahead?"

"Come on! You're smart enough to get it. Sedgwyck's got too many friends in high places."

"That doesn't give her the right to break the law!"

"You have no proof!" Manning shouts back, rising from his seat and planting his fists on the desk, "Just a bunch of conjecture."

"I know where they're keeping her."

The bald man snorts. "Sure, like psychic premonitions hold a lot of sway in federal court."

Abe balls his fists. "You're just going to let them get away with it?"

"Hey, I'm pissed off about it, too. But my hands are tied. I can't say yes to your rescue op." He stares at the distraught fish-man for a long calculating moment. "You positive you know where she's at?"

"Yes."

Manning purses his lips. "Too bad. But like I said, I can't authorize you taking one of our stealth copters and a squad of agents out on your rescue mission. Just can't do it, and that's _official_." He stresses the last word significantly.

Abe meets his eyes, nods. "I understand."

"Good." Manning sits back down, looking exhausted. He waves a dismissive hand. "Get the hell outta here before I come to my senses."

Abe leaves the office. Hellboy and Liz wait for him in the hall. The stare at him anxiously. Abe meets each of their gazes. "He's given his official no. There'll be a copter waiting for us in the hangar."

Hellboy grins. "Then what're we waitin' for?"

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I am drained. I lie on the bed, too weak to move. Maybe this is it; the fear I've carried in the back of my mind all these years is finally coming true. I've reached my limit of healing and can no longer recover. Something of a relief, really. I'd hate to think this life of mine is eternal. So many people I've known, so many friends and loved ones, all aged and passed on while I remain unchanged, save for the growing number of scars patterning my body inside and out. I'm not even sure how old I really am. I don't want to know.

It's dark now. Night has fallen. Has it really been less than twenty-four hours since my abduction? My time at the BPRD seems so long ago. Are they planning my rescue? Seems unlikely, given Cora's numerous connections. It's incredible what money combined with desperation can accomplish.

_Now Suzanne takes your hand,_

_And she leads you to the river,_

_She is wearing rags and feathers_

_From Salvation Army counters_.

Why does that song keep running through my head? It's almost as if someone else is thinking of it and my mind picks it up like the crossed signal on a radio. I squeeze my eyes shut. There's a faint pull deep inside me, the tug of an invisible thread.

A sound reaches my ears, shouts and muted pops. Gunfire? Here? Despite my weakness, my pulse begins to quicken. The invisible thread pulls taut, nearly snaps free. I imagine my hand reaching out and grasping its trailing end. I tug back and feel a vibration travel down it. Suddenly, an image flashes into my mind. A long hallway, and at its end, the door to my room. A sneering Graice rises from his seat and draws his weapon. His eyes suddenly widen in shock; the gun begins to smoke in his hand.

I hear a muffled scream outside my door, hear a loud _thunk_ as something heavy hits the floor. I open my eyes in time to see Graice's body smash through the door and fly across the room in a shower of splinters. He strikes the far wall, just missing the window, and tumbles to the floor in a boneless heap. Three figures stand silhouetted in the doorway; one short and feminine, one broad and massive, one tall and slender. A sob of relief escapes me. Hellboy lumbers into the room, scoops me up from the bed as if I weigh nothing. "Let's get the hell outta here."

Gunfire erupts. Abe and Liz duck inside and fire their sidearms from either side of the door, lunging out and ducking back. Hellboy cradles me in his right arm with its stone hand, picks up a chair with his other hand, and flings it through the window. Shattered glass shimmers in the moonlight.

"Go!" Abe shouts from the door, "We'll catch up!" He leans out to fire another salvo down the hallway, now crawling with Graice's men. Hellboy holds me close to his chest and leaps through the window, jarring me as his hooves touch the ground. A few hundred yards away a black helicopter lands on the wide lawn, whisper-silent. Hellboy runs towards it, carrying me. Around us federal agents emerge from the mansion in an orderly withdrawal. I see among them the man I healed, Agent Horne. I clutch the lapel of Hellboy's large overcoat and peer over his broad shoulder towards the house behind us, anxious for a glimpse of Liz and Abe leaping through the window after us. But they do not come. We are almost at the copter when a pain lances through my head and the fragile thread is abruptly severed.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Liz and Abe are backing towards the open window, still firing their guns. They're so occupied with holding off the men in the hall neither of them notices Graice rise shakily from the floor. He finds a broken chair leg, hefts it like a club, and in two broad strides brings it down on Liz's head. The woman collapses to the floor. Abe whirls to see Graice holding the unconscious woman's head up by a fistful of hair, her own handgun pressed to her temple. "Drop it," Graice hisses.

He has no choice. Abe carefully places his weapon on the floor.

"Kick it over."

He does so. The men in the hallway storm into the room, led by a shorter young man with delicate features and large blue eyes who giggles as he raises his fist. Abe catches a glimpse of metal before the fist strikes. There's a flash of brilliant, painful white, then only blackness.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I try to shout as Hellboy reaches the copter and hands me up to a waiting agent before climbing aboard. "Everybody out?"

"Except for Agents Sherman and Sapien," Horne replies.

"They're not coming," I say, too quiet to be heard.

Figures emerge from the mansion, four of them dragging two limp figures by the arms. Hellboy tenses. "Oh, crap."

I can see Cora and Graice standing near their two prisoners. Graice raises a bullhorn to his mouth. _"Oh, Suzieee! Come out, come out!"_

"Shit!" Hellboy unholsters a revolver like a small cannon, though I can't imagine what good it will do. I reach a trembling hand out to touch his arm. "They only want me," I tell him.

The demon shakes his head. "Not a chance."

"_You're starting to piss us off, girl."_ Cora snatches the bullhorn from the thug and uses it to broadcast her frigid, enraged voice. _"Suzanne, if you do not come back this instant these two…_people_…we've captured will suffer for your insolence. And believe me, Graice's men know how to make others suffer a long time."_

"Those're federal agents you're threatening, lady!" Hellboy bellows, "You sure you wanna go there?"

"She's desperate," I tell him, "Mortality is catching up with her and she knows it. Let me go."

Hellboy shakes his head, but I can see the worry in his yellow eyes. Even from this distance I can see the growing rage in the old woman's gaunt features. She nods sharply to Graice, who turns and speaks to one of his men. I realize with sudden dread that it's Clown. I can almost hear his manic giggle as he pulls out his knife and approaches the two unconscious figures.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Graice turns to Clown. "Better do the fish-man. You don't wanna wake the chick, believe me."

The pretty-faced man unsheathes his long knife with a grin of anticipation. "Would've picked the fish anyhow," he giggles. He strolls over to the two prisoners. "Drop 'im." The two mercenaries release the fish-man's arms and he falls limply to the ground. His transparent eyelids flutter. Clown kneels on the fish-man's shoulders, grabs a thin wrist with his free hand and holds the arm flat against the ground, webbed palm facing upward. The fish-man groans, stares groggily up into Clown's angelic features. A look of comprehension dawns as the grinning psychopath raises his blade and stabs downward, impaling the fish-man's hand.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

My own scream mingles with the distant sound of Abe's pain. In horror I watch as Clown frees his blade, adjusts his grip, and slashes across the exposed blue skin of Abe's forearm. Before I realize what's happening, before Hellboy or any of the agents have a chance to react to any of this, I leap from the open helicopter and run across the wide lawn towards the mansion. I run so fast I leave the agents far behind me. I don't know where this sudden burst of energy comes from; do not even question it. My bare feet pound on the manicured lawn, my legs pump frantically, and my heart stutters in my chest. I suddenly realize I'm screaming over and over, _"Stop! Stop!"_

Graice, smirking as always, grabs me as I near. I kick and struggle against his iron grip, while Clown, giggling, continues to slash with is knife. Blue blood stains the shining blade and darkens the grass. Abe's screams pierce me down to my core. And all the while Cora stares impassively, eyes devoid of all but her anger.

"Make him stop!" I plead. The old woman remains silent. Far behind me I hear an enraged bellow and turn to see Hellboy and a group of feds running towards us. Graice's men raise their automatic weapons and wait for them to come into range. They are running into certain death, yet all they can think about is their friend's agonized screams.

"Please, Cora," I sob, "I'm begging you!"

"Begging me?" she snarls, face contorting into something inhuman, "I give you everything you could possibly want, a home, a life of comfort, and you throw it back in my face. Why should I listen to your pathetic pleas for this creature now?"

Abe's cries are weakening. I sob helplessly. That is when Andrew appears. He gapes at the damaged house, the armed men, stares in horror at the atrocity being committed on Abe. He rushes forward, grabs Clown's knife-wielding arm. "Stop it!"

Two of Graice's men dash forward and pry the young man away. With barely a pause Clown brings his knife down. Fresh screams pierce the night. Andrew fights his restrainers even as I renew my own struggles.

"Nana! Stop this! You're killing him!"

"Take him back to his room!" Cora shouts, ignoring her great-grandson's pleas as he's dragged off.

The feds are drawing nearer, the mercenaries' weapons are primed, Abe's cries are growing feebler. In desperation I reach back, grab hold of Graice's ear, and twist with all my strength. Graice roars in pain and loosens his grip. I struggle free and run forward, but not towards Clown and his struggling victim. I run to Cora, grip the startled woman's thin shoulders. "I'll stay," I rasp hoarsely, "I won't try to escape again. I'll make you live forever."

Black eyes gleam avidly. It is all she's ever wanted. I place my hands on her withered cheeks, bring my lips towards hers. "Forever." Our mouths connect. Cora's eyes widen. Bony hands try to push me away, but she cannot break my hold. Our bodies topple onto the grass. The old woman kicks and struggles. By now even Clown has paused in his torture to gape at this sight. I finally pull away, yet Cora continues to writhe on the ground. Large bruises mottle her pale skin. Blood fountains from her nose. She chokes and gurgles, eyes roll back into her head, and suddenly she's still. A piece of my soul dies with her.

Graice, one hand to his wounded ear, unholsters his gun with the other and points it at my head. I stare down the darkened barrel while, from the corner of my eye, I see Liz slowly raise her head, unnoticed by the men supporting her. Her eyes are drawn to the bloodied heap that is her friend Abe. It takes a moment for the horror to sink in, then she opens her mouth and screams. At that instant, Graice and all his men burst into flame.

Sprawled on the ground, I roll onto my stomach and begin to crawl towards Abe's motionless form. The sounds all around me are indescribable. At one point a flaming hand touches my wrist, searing my scarred flesh, but I barely react. The weakness that left me moments ago has returned with a vengeance. My vision blurs and I fight to remain conscious. It seems an eternity before I reach my goal. I can barely recognize the man who tried to befriend me only a day ago. Strips of his skin have been peeled away, exposing blue-tinged muscle. His left eye is a gory hole on his face. I weep at the sight, pulling myself closer. My hands steady his lolling head and I whisper a prayer to any gods who might be listening. _Please let this work._ Then I bring my lips to his. The last thing I recall before darkness sweeps over me is the scent of Abe's blood, like the ocean.


	7. Holds the Mirror

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.**

*****************************************************************************************

Andrew stumbles through the battlefield, trying not to vomit. The men who'd dragged him away turned tail the second they saw their compatriots burst into flame. They burn so hot they die almost instantly, yet the sounds of their deaths seem to linger in the air along with a stench like burnt pork. Andrew weaves an unsteady path between the heaps of blackened remains and tries not to think about the fact that only moments ago they were recognizable men. He doesn't consciously realize what he searches for until he spies an uncharred body. He stares down at the motionless form. "Nana?"

Her eyes are open and sightless, blood is caked around her nose and mouth. She looks so surprised.

Quiet sobs distract the young man from this grisly sight. He turns his stunned gaze towards a huddle of unfamiliar men in suits. Among them, on her knees in the heat-withered grass, sits a young woman with long brown hair weeping as a huge red creature puts an arm around her shoulders. "It's okay, kiddo. Everything's okay." A lie, but it seems to help. The girl pulls herself together.

"Sir," one of the suited men--feds, Andrew suddenly realizes--speaks to the red giant, "Agent Sapien and the woman aren't waking."

With obvious reluctance, the red man removes his arm from around the girl and stands, offering her a hand which she refuses. The two of them approach the cluster of agents, and that is when Andrew sees Suzanne sprawled unconscious on the ground beside the equally unconscious fish-man. Despite the horrors Clown inflicted on him (Clown, who is nothing but a pile of ash and bone a scant couple of feet away), there isn't a mark anywhere on the fish-man. Only the dark stains on his clothes and the grass remain to assure them all that what they'd witnessed actually occurred. As for Suzanne…at first, Andrew isn't even sure she's still alive. Her skin has taken on a bluish tinge, bruise-like circles surrounding both closed eyes. Only the barest movement of her chest reveals that she still breathes. Andrew nudges his way through the crowded feds to kneel at the woman's side. He can't help but wonder how tragic his family must be, that he should feel more saddened by this than by his great-grandmother's death. He reaches out, rests his hand on her brow. The skin is far too cool. Andrew looks up at the red giant. "Can you help her?"

For a moment Hellboy considers lying. Instead, he shrugs his massive shoulders and answers, "I don't know."

Andrew sighs, sits back on his heels. He stares at the devastation around him, the needless deaths and suffering. His great-grandmother's legacy to him. "If she wakes," he says, looking at no one, "don't tell me. Let me convince myself that she's gone. For her sake." He takes a breath; such a simple act. He wonders how long it will be so for him, before the healing fades and each inhalation becomes a struggle. He wipes away the tears from his cheeks, tears he hasn't even consciously known to have shed, then stands and slowly walks back towards the empty mansion. He doesn't spare a glance for the old woman's remains.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

_Memories. He dives through them as if they are water, deeper and deeper. She possessed so many names, each name a different life…_

Suzanne, who healed a little boy breathing from an oxygen bottle as he played in the sandbox at the park, thus drawing the attention of Cora Sedgwyck.

Amanda, a migrant worker who picked strawberries, until a truck accident left a fellow migrant with a crushed pelvis that required her attention. When she recovered she found her hat filled with coins and small bills and a fearful note that said: _Do not come back._

Margaret, who traveled with a preacher named Aaron from one Depression-era town to another dispensing hope and healing. What money they collected they passed on to the nearest charity, keeping only enough to keep them fed and their pickup running. When she told him she didn't believe in God, Aaron laughed and said, "Oh, that's alright, darlin'. God loves atheists, too." Aaron died in his sleep one evening while she drove the truck. She never found out what killed him; never stopped blaming herself for not saving him.

Linda, who found a girl in an alleyway bleeding to death from a botched street abortion.

Emily, who witnessed an innocent man get castrated by hateful men in white robes. As she was healing him, she wondered if she might awaken with man parts. She didn't.

Sarah, wandering in a battlefield full of dead and dying men, some so young they were no more than children. It was the only time she fought to remain conscious after each severe healing. She dragged herself through the gory mud from victim to victim, day after blood-soaked day, while sated crows glided through the stinking miasma. Out of thousands, she only managed to save just over a hundred. Her body was so marred from the ordeal she no longer recognized her own reflection.

Bethany, Alice, Elizabeth, June…

Zaida, on the ocean. A storm had swept the ship off course. The men aboard were dying of a terrible sickness when the island people in their simple dugouts found them. This did not stop the strangers from attacking the harmless fishermen and their families with their deadly weapons that could kill at a distance. In desperation, Zaida struck a bargain; she would heal them of their sickness if they agreed to leave her people in peace. The captain amended the deal; they would leave, but only if Zaida went with them. Theirs was a slave ship. Until Zaida with her gift of healing arrived, they were in danger of losing most of their "cargo" to illness and infection. With her healing kisses, the didn't lose a single one. When they reached land, Zaida paid a final visit to the captain in his cabin. She kissed him, and instead of healing she gave back the sickness she took from him, along with the sickness of all his crewmen.

"It was murder. It doesn't matter if he deserved it. I am a healer. I perverted my gift. And now I've killed again."

_He feels her drifting away. In desperation, he plunges further into the black waters, reaching for her. _Don't go._ His gills flex uselessly. He gasps and struggles on. His reaching hands touch a soft, yielding barrier. He knows he will find her on the other side. He digs. Penetrating it is like burrowing into gelatin, yet he persists. Down and through…_

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I stand upon the bow of the ship. The sunlight falls golden upon my skin. I hold up my hands, stare at their unblemished smoothness. As if sensing my unvoiced need, someone hands me a mirror. I gaze at my long-forgotten face and feel hot tears sting my eyes. I forgot that I used to be beautiful.

The crew are not the slavers of my past; they are men and women I've known throughout my long, long life. There is Aaron at the wheel singing a joyful hymn. He grins and waves at me. There on the rigging, two of the young soldiers I healed on that horrible battlefield, one in blue, the other in gray, both working side by side. In the crow's nest is Manuela, the migrant worker I healed after the car accident. And so many others.

"Land ho!"

I look ahead, already knowing what I'll see. An island, its sandy beach crowded with happily waving figures, bronze skinned and dressed in simple breechclouts. Some of them run to their dugouts to meet us. I know that one of them is my father.

_Home._

The old longing has been with me forever, as painful and indelible as any of my scars. Home, to which there can be no return, though I've tried. Years after my abduction, I managed to backtrack the route the slave ship took and even found someone to take me there. But there was nothing left. The slavers might've gone, but they managed to wipe out the island's inhabitants all the same. Disease. If I'd stayed, I would've been able to save them all. If I'd stayed, they would've ended up in the slavers' hold. I left to save them, and in leaving I doomed them. But now they're here, alive and waiting for me. I can almost hear their joyous shouts in words I haven't heard spoken for an eternity. I laugh in excitement.

_And the sun pours down like honey _

_on our lady of the harbor…_

What? I look around me in confusion. No one else seems to have heard. My feet turn of their own accord and carry me towards the stern. I squint in the bright sunlight bouncing off the blue waves. There is movement in the water. Dolphins? But no, my mind tells me, I already know the truth. Water drops spray up and out, glittering like shards of diamond, as Abe breaches the surface. How he keeps pace with the vessel I have no idea. He seems to exert little effort as he swims, neither falling behind nor drawing closer. I half expect him to shout something, but he remains silent, only focusing on the power of his limbs. He's come for me again, just as he came for me at Cora's estate. I remember the relief I felt when I saw him come through the door; remember the ache left behind when our mental connection was severed; and I remember how at the last second he tried to push me away when I went to heal him, not because he was afraid of me, but because he feared _for_ me.

Behind me, I can hear the calls of welcome from the men in the dugouts. Before me I see Abe, skin as blue as the ocean around us, shining in the brilliant sun. I swallow a sudden lump in my throat as the words come to me, unbidden.

"_And the sun pours down like honey _

_on our lady of the harbor_

_And she shows you where to look_

_Among the garbage and the flowers_

_There are heroes in the seaweed_

_There are children in the morning_

_They are leaning out for love_

_And they will lean that way forever_

_While Suzanne holds the mirror."_

I have lived for so long. Too long. I've watched good people grow old and die, watched entire generations pass me by, and still I linger. Why should I remain when everyone else must be content with less? I realize the instant I think this question that I'm trying to convince myself, trying to deny the fact that I'm just not ready. I look over my shoulder, see the distant figure of my father paddling towards me. He pauses, sits silent in his dugout. Does he know? He raises his paddle and shouts two words, faint with distance but still clear: _Not yet._

I smile, step onto the rail, and dive overboard. No one tries to stop me. I hit the warm blue water and come up sputtering. It's been so long since I've swum in these blue waters, tasted their salt and felt their gentle embrace. I laugh like the child I once was as I propel myself with powerful strokes towards the distant figure of Abe. I laugh again as we meet and I feel his slender arms catch me around the waist. I do not shy away from him. His magical eyes are filled with relief even as he looks with surprise at my unmarred face.

"I wasn't always ugly," I say, almost successful in hiding the melancholy I feel come over me.

He doesn't try to say something trite like "You were never ugly." Instead, he merely smiles his gentle smile and I see the little gap between his teeth. "You ready?"

I look down, far below our kicking legs, into the blackness. I shiver. "No. But I trust you."

His smile broadens, and I swear his face turns a darker shade of blue for just a moment. Then we are going under and all I can concentrate on is his guiding hand in mine.


	8. The Space Between Them

**A/N:** Sorry this chappie's a bit shorter than I initially planned. I _was_ going to end the story here, but at the last second changed my mind. I still haven't finished with these characters, it seems. :-)

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.**

*****************************************************************************************

In returning, what happened to Abe happens to me; I experience the memories of his life. Awakening in the tank he's found in with no knowledge of who or what he is. The weeks spent isolated in a sterile lab, submitted to batteries physical and psychological tests by coldly detached men and women in plastic isolation suits. Then comes the kindly old man who calls Abe _he_ rather than _it_, and who introduces him to the beauties of the library. Meeting Hellboy for the first time, resulting in the conviction that they would never get along. Meeting the tragic young girl named Liz. The sense of belonging among the three of them, reinforced during the hardships they face together in the BPRD. The sorrow in discovering the Professor's illness and his subsequent death at the hands of an enemy. The blossoming romance between Liz and Hellboy. Abe's happiness for them, even as he knows he's being left behind. Meeting me…a person whose sense of duty to her gift is rivaled by the loneliness she experiences because of it; feelings so similar to his own.

We come to the end of our journey together and I feel his thoughts pull away from mine. _Don't go_, I want to cry, but my mouth stays silent. There is gray light ahead, the smell of disinfectant and water. It is not a welcoming place, that distant light, but I move towards it anyway. I know Abe is waiting for me there.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Abe opens his eyes. He is inside his recovery tank in the infirmary, a variety of sensors adhered to his skin. Through the narrow tank's transparent front he sees Zaida sitting up on the edge of the hospital bed, back to him. Her head is bowed, the knobs of her vertebrae protruding through the scarred skin at the base of her neck. Through the open slit at the back of the frumpy hospital gown Abe can see the numerous crisscrossing pale lines, some so thin they are nearly invisible, others thick cords of raised tissue. He recalls her appearance in their shared vision, the absence of all those physical reminders of life's brutality, and feels a stab of remorse to have brought her back to this. As if sensing the fish-man's attention, Zaida lifts her head and looks over her shoulder. Seeing him, she smiles. Abe doesn't know whether to laugh in relief or cry. Her left eye is clouded in milky scar tissue.

He remembers the torture, the agony of the blade slicing into him, the horrific sounds of Clown's manic giggles. It's as if what happened to him is nothing more than a vivid nightmare whose details begin to fade in the light of day. He looks down at himself and sees unmarred blue, experiences no difficulty in seeing through his left eye, healed and whole.

Abe peels the sensors off his body, unlatches the opening at the top of the tank, pulls himself out. As he walks towards the bed his bare feet leave small puddles in their wake. The woman follows him with her mismatched eyes, head turning until he stands before her. Even seated on the raised bed, Zaida has to crane her neck to look at the tall fish-man. Her face is mottled and discolored with the remnants of burns and cuts and gashes, none of them inflicted on her to begin with. Abe stares at her ruined eye, which should be his, and wishes there was some way to take it back. "I'm so sorry."

Zaida shakes her head, still smiling with her uneven mouth. "Don't be. Honestly, I'm amazed my eyes have stayed untouched for this long. It was only a matter of time."

"I went to rescue you," he says, voice heavy with remorse, "and I end up leaving you half-blind."

"That's not all you've left me with," she holds up her hands, spreads the fingers wide apart, "Look."

Despite the tightness in his throat, Abe laughs, a sound which makes Zaida's smile broaden into a toothy grin. Webs of delicate skin span the gaps between the woman's fingers. Without thought, Abe takes her webbed hands in his own. Zaida doesn't flinch from his touch. She curls her fingers around his. He runs his thumbs across her knuckles, soft and gentle. She closes her eyes and feels her lip begin to tremble. "I only ever touch people when I'm taking their pain. No one wants to touch me otherwise, and after a while I didn't want them touching me. It was just too…" words fail her. She shrugs.

"I understand."

Zaida's eyes open. She looks at him in surprise. "You do?"

The smile on his face holds a touch of sadness. "People look at me and they see something out of a monster movie. A slimy sea-creature come to abduct hapless blondes and carry them off to his underwater lair." People's faces contorted into grimaces of fear and disgust flit across his thoughts.

His words astound her. "I…I can't believe that." How is such a thing possible, a creature as lovely as him ostracized and reviled? He is not malformed like Zaida. He is beautiful. Why would anyone fear him?

"It's true," Abe says in a lighter tone as if it doesn't matter to him, "All those damsels in distress take one look at me and run the other way. Aside from Hellboy, I'm the world's least desirable hero." _And yet Hellboy has Liz_, the bitter thought intrudes. Abe shoves it to the back of his mind, but not before Zaida catches a glimpse of sadness in his eyes. Empathy wells in her.

"I'm not running away." It is no more than a whisper, yet that simple declaration fills the space between them. It is a delicate moment, one which will end once thoughts intrude and bring fear and doubt with them. Deep down inside they know this, so they do not pause to consider as they lean towards each other. Their lips touch. It is a kiss filled with awkward sincerity, as if between children, devoid of sexuality, yet intensely heartfelt. A tear spills from Zaida's sightless eye and traces a crooked path down the planes and grooves of her cheek. The kiss ends and they draw away from each other, eyes cast down on their joined hands, faces flushed. Bashful smiles spread across their faces. Zaida giggles; she has never felt so young.

"I've never been kissed before," Abe confesses.

"Neither have I." She raises her eyes to meet his. His face has become a much darker shade of blue and his wide grin can almost be described as goofy. Zaida feels her own blush deepen and giggles again. Abe finds the sound adorable. He squeezes her hands.

"Thank you for healing me."

Zaida smiles. "Thank you for rescuing me. And…for coming after me."

There is a faint click as the door opens. They quickly release each other's hands with pangs of regret as the outside world intrudes once again.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once again I am offered a place here, which I steadfastly refuse. I will never again let my gift be controlled by others. Hellboy, Liz, and Abe support my decision, as do several of the agents, including Agent Horne. Manning makes a few halfhearted protests before he finally gives in. I'm under the impression that he does not find the prospect of a healer on the team quite so appealing now that he knows how far some people are willing to go to try to claim me. The Bureau kindly provides me with a few supplies and a modest sum of cash. I will continue as I always have, traveling from place to place, healing those who need it along the way. It is a difficult and lonely life, but it is mine by choice and I do not regret it. That other world, the island on the blue ocean, my family and friends, will all be waiting for me when I am ready to join them, however long that may be.

I am given an escort to the bus station. The Bureau's limo draws curious stares from the bystanders. Their reactions would be far more extreme if the glass wasn't tinted so dark.

Abe musters a smile for me, though I can almost feel the sadness radiating from him. Dare I tell him that I would stay despite my earlier protests if only he'd ask me instead? I think perhaps he knows this, though he would never abuse this knowledge. I would not feel for him as I do if it were otherwise. I take his webbed hand in my own. My heart flutters at this intimacy which is still so unfamiliar to me.

"If I write to you," I ask, "will you promise to read them?"

Relief and gratitude floods his expression. "Of course I will."

I smile, happy that our connection does not have to end here. Outside our vehicle I can hear the PA system announce the departures. My heart sinks; there's no more time. I reluctantly let go of Abe's hand to gather my duffel bag from the opposite seat. I grab the door handle, hesitate. Tears well in my mismatched eyes. I feel Abe's hand on my shoulder and turn to face him. His gentle webbed hand cups my face and his soft lips press against my own. My duffel slips to the floor as my arms wrap around his shoulders. We end the kiss with great reluctance, rest our foreheads against each other's.

"Goodbye," Abe whispers.

I nod, biting my lip, too overcome to speak. We pull away from each other, our eyes averted. I pick up my duffel bag once again, pull my hood over my head, and open the door. I do not turn around as I hear the limo drive off, carrying Abe back to the BPRD. We have each chosen to use what we were given; gifts that belong not to us, but to all who benefit from them. We are merely the bearers. For as long as we can bear it.

I purchase a ticket to a random destination. It does not matter where I go, only what I do once I get there.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I read about it in the paper: HEIR TO SEDGWYCK ESTATE HOSPITALIZED. It has been weeks since I last kissed him. His time on this earth, far longer than he ever would have hoped for or expected, is finally running out. I decide to pay one last visit for friendship's sake.

It is like any other hospital, barren and impersonal, reeking of sickness and disinfectant, and lit by harsh fluorescents. No one questions my presence, no doubt believing me a patient here. There are some advantages to looking the way I do. It does not take me long to find the room I search for.

Andrew Sedgwyck's withered body lies amidst a forest of life-monitoring equipment, the exposed skin of his arms covered in sensors and pierced with I.V.'s. Though too weak to react, I see recognition light his tired eyes. I smile, shut the door behind me, and move to his side. "Hey."

He stares at me. The corners of his mouth twitch in an attempted smile. He is on bottled oxygen _and_ inside an oxygen tent. Yet his lips and the skin around his too-large eyes is tinged with blue. There is a hole in the tent with a built-in glove. I stick my arm through it to grasp his skeletal hand. The glove fits strangely on by webbed fingers. Neither of us speaks. I know he sees the question in my eyes. With the faintest movement, he shakes his head. Then I ask him a different question, this time with words. Tears roll down his face as he nods. I squeeze his hand before I withdraw from the glove and reach up to unzip the plastic tent. I cradle his face in my hands like so many times before and bring my lips to his. Instead of taking, I give. Andrew sighs--a weak, damp sound--and then falls still. His suffering ends. I close the now useless oxygen tent and leave the hospital room. As I traverse the hall a group of nurses and doctors hurry past me, but not too quickly. They all know their efforts will be for nothing.

Later, safely hidden in a narrow alley, I fall to my knees and burst into tears.


	9. Letters

*****************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.**

*****************************************************************************************

It is more than two months before the first letter arrives. It comes in a plain white envelope, the message itself written on a page torn from a legal memo pad. Zaida's handwriting is sensible and easily read, lacking the elaborate loops and curls Abe would expect. She begins without preamble:

_Yesterday I watched as a homeless woman shared her sandwich with a stray cat. Both were filthy and battle-scarred, the woman prone to bouts of angry shouting which made me suspect she was schizophrenic. Minutes ago I'd seen her scrounging through the dumpster behind a fast food restaurant where she no doubt found her meal. For someone like her, poverty would be a huge step up, yet she didn't hesitate to share what little she had with the sad, scrawny animal who flinched at every sudden movement. Why is it that those who can afford it the least often show the greatest generosity?_

At the bottom of the envelope is a bright red bottle cap. Abe tips it into his hand, curious as to why she would include such an odd token. His slender webbed fingers close around the crimped metal disc…

…and experiences unseasonable warmth. Sweat flows down Zaida's uneven features, causes her T-shirt to cling to her back. With so much of herself exposed, she must endure the passersby's furtive stares, their expressions ranging from morbid curiosity to outright revulsion. Yet even they are preferable to those who do not look at her at all, even when they speak to her, as if to shun her from existence. She does not let any of this bother her. It is a beautiful day and she means to enjoy it.

A small convenience store looms ahead; what some call a mom'n'pop operation. A lonely chime sounds as she pushes open the door. The blast of cool air that strikes her face brings a sigh of relief. The cash register is manned by an older gentleman who is probably the owner of the establishment. Once he gets over his initial shock at her appearance, his weathered features settle back into surly indifference. He watches suspiciously as she peruses the beverages. This little out-of-the-way store has a selection of nameless sodas in a variety of "fruit" flavors. Zaida grins, opens the glass-fronted refrigerator door--which opens with a faint suctioned _hiss_--and chooses a clear bottle filled with bright reddish-pink liquid. She hasn't had a strawberry soda in years. She pays the craggy-faced man, then asks if he has a bottle opener. Without a change in his expression, the old man pulls out a pocketknife and unfolds the proper tool. He hands it to the scarred woman, who thanks him. _Pshht!_ The bottle cap clatters on the scuffed countertop. Zaida returns the pocketknife, picks up the cap, and exits the store. She sticks the bottle cap into her pocket without any particular plan for the useless bit of metal. In the heat of the day, the bottle sweats in her hand almost as much as she. The soda fizzes happily. She takes a swig. Ahhh! Bliss…

…Abe blink-blinks as the moment fades. The sticky-sweet taste of strawberry soda lingers in his mouth. He smiles.

The letters come without pattern. Sometimes Abe receives several in a week, while other times an envelope doesn't arrive for the better part of a month. Sometimes the letters are pages long, crammed into their envelopes so the sides bulge; and sometimes they are only a paragraph long. Once, Abe receives a letter that is only a single sentence: _Sometimes I think I can still feel you._ There is always some small item included; pebbles and feathers, pressed leaves and buttons, and once a butterfly's wing, so fragile Abe is astounded that it has survived its journey intact. Each simple offering holds an experience, a moment in Zaida's life. Abe treasures them. The objects lie in neat rows on a shelf, or line the wall in little individual frames, their numbers steadily growing as more of Zaida's correspondence comes in. She never says "Dear Abe," or "Sincerely/Love/Yours." It is as if she is writing a journal mailing it to him a piece at a time.

_I'm sorry if my writing's a bit shaky. There was a horrific car accident which I'm still recovering from. A young man was thrown through the windshield of his car and tumbled across the pavement. I could see blood oozing from his ears, his limbs twisted and bent. I only had seconds to save him and when I did I blacked out almost instantly. I woke in the hospital, and for a second I thought I was back at the Bureau and that you would come strolling in at any moment. But of course, that was foolishness. I unhooked all the wires and tubes, found my clothes in the room's closet, and looked for a way to make a discreet exit. Unfortunately, the incident with the injured man, followed by my own miraculous recovery, prompted a great deal of attention from the hospital staff. I barely made it ten feet from my room when I felt a hand grasp my arm. I very nearly screamed when that happened, not because I was startled, but because aside from you, I still don't like others to touch me. It was a male nurse who'd caught me. I expected him to take me back to my room and perhaps call a doctor, but instead he led me down a hallway and towards a pair of doors that were unmistakably an exit probably used by the maintenance staff. The nurse stared at me for a moment, then reached into his pocket and handed me something, then he just walked away. He never said a word to me. I didn't have the heart to keep the thing he gave me, for fear of losing it, so I've decided to entrust it with you. Keep it safe. It was precious to him._

The item is a tiny crucifix with a hole at the top where one could thread a chain or cord to wear it as a necklace. It lies in Abe's palm like a glimmer of hope.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Months trickle past.

_The monarch butterflies are beginning their migration. How incredible it is, that something so delicate and frail can travel thousands of miles, through foul weather and predators and overzealous people with nets to reach their mating grounds and then fly all the way back to lay their eggs so that the next generation might continue the cycle. The odds against them are so many, and yet they thrive. They give me hope._

After a while, Abe gets a filing box to store the accumulated letters. It isn't long before it is filled.

_Every morning when I wake, the first thing I see is my hands. They are the only parts of me I enjoy looking at, because they remind me of you._

The postmarks come from all over. Zaida seldom spends more than a few weeks in one place, which makes answering her letters impossible. This saddens Abe at first.

_I feel so much more optimistic than I used to. Every moment of my life used to be an inescapable chore. Now I find myself looking forward to the days so that I can tell you about them. Though I know our communication is one-sided, I still feel as if you are with me. I can close my eyes and imagine you reading these words, holding the silly trinkets I send you. Do you keep all these things, I wonder?_

His pulse quickens each time the Bureau's mail comes in, hoping for one of the precious envelopes with his name neatly spelled out: Abraham Sapien, c/o The Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense (he chuckles at this; officially, the Bureau doesn't even exist, and yet they have their own postal delivery). Often when he returns from a particularly unpleasant assignment he will find a letter waiting for him upon his return. No matter how downtrodden he feels, the sight of that plain white envelope always brightens his mood.

_Autumn is my favorite time of the year. In my childhood I didn't experience such changes in the seasons. I think that makes me appreciate them all the more. The leaves have turned to their sunset colors, the mornings are crisp, there's a faint spiciness in the air. There are pumpkins and squash and multicolored ears of corn in every store. Flocks of birds dance in the sky or move with single-minded purpose towards warmer climes, while the hardier crows come to build their nests and fill the air with their raucous caws. I don't see why people dislike crows. They are so full of character. When the light hits their feathers just so, they take a magnificent blue sheen that's almost metallic. They are clever and pragmatic, and yes, sometimes pesky. I wouldn't trade them for all the exotic rainbow-plumed birds in the world._

This latest envelope is oddly lumpy. Abe tears it open, pulls out the folded page, and something falls out and clatters to the floor. Abe picks it up; it's a game piece from a chessboard, a plastic white pawn. He clutches it in his hand…

"…to B4." There is a small crowd gathered around the two opponents who are seated at one of the public chessboards situated throughout the park. There is nothing remarkable about the game itself, save for one of its players. Black is a middle-aged Asian man with wire-rimmed glasses and a thick mop of unkempt hair. White is, in fact, a black man, mid-thirties, who stares ahead with an enigmatic expression, hands folded calmly on his lap. A yellow Labrador sprawls at his feet, indifferent to the men's competition.

Zaida knows nothing about chess. She watches the carved pieces move about without the slightest clue as to what they're doing or who's winning. The Asian maneuvers his knight, announcing his move and adding "check" with a hint of smugness.

The black man--who is white--smiles and calmly intones his own move. The Asian obligingly lifts the white queen and sets it down on the appropriate square. After a moment's consideration, his face falls. This is all the hint Zaida needs to know white has won. It isn't long before the black man murmurs "checkmate" and the black king lies on its side, a fallen monarch. The onlookers sigh and murmur appreciatively. A few of them even applaud. The Asian stands with as much dignity as he can muster. "Good game."

The black man offers his hand, which his opponent shakes after only a second's hesitation. Then the Asian walks away. The black man reaches down, picks up an old cigar box, and places the chess pieces inside it. Zaida marvels at how sure his movements are as he gathers the scattered pieces. He barely has to feel around for them. When they are safely stowed, the man tucks the cigar box under his arm, then reaches down to grasp the handle of his dog's harness. The yellow Lab gets to its feet with a bored grunt.

"Home, Sam," the man says and follows the dog's lead with trusting steps. After a few paces he stops, swivels his head, and says, "Worked out what to say yet?"

Zaida starts. "Uh…H-how did--"

"You were shuffling your feet." The man smiles. "Lotta grit on the pavement, makes a heck of a loud scraping noise."

"Oh." Zaida feels the heat rise to her face. "Er, that was very impressive, the way you kept track of all those moves."

The man shrugs. "Trick is to picture the board in your head. If you can do that, the one on the table's just extra."

"Makes sense."

The man smiles. "I'm Anthony."

Zaida catches herself. "Julia."

"Julia," he stretches the syllables out, as if tasting them. His voice is deep and rich. The sound brings a flutter to her stomach. "Julia, would you care to keep a gentleman company on his walk home?"

She hesitates. "Um, I'd like to, but…" People are watching them, talking. One of them laughs. Making wisecracks about the blind man and the freak.

"What?"

"I'm kind of," she grimaces, "strange looking."

"I promise not to stare."

This makes Zaida laugh, which causes Anthony's smile to deepen. There are pronounced creases at the corners of his eyes and mouth. Zaida thinks they make him look distinguished. "Other people will stare," she warns.

He shrugs, an odd thing for a sightless man to do. "I won't notice, and I'm sure you're used to a few tactless looks."

His confidence decides her. "Alright then. I would be happy to keep you company."

They walk side-by-side, chatting companionably…

…Abe gives a shake of the head as if rousing from a daydream and stares at the chess piece in his hand with a frown. He sets it on an end table, unfolds the single page.

_I've met a man named Anthony. He is blind, the result of an operation to remove a brain tumor. We met in a park and became almost instant friends. He reminds me of you. Intelligent, sensitive, slightly mischievous. I'd planned on leaving a week ago, but find myself lingering just to spend more time with him. He knows what I look like. I let him touch my face. That is how much I've come to trust him, and in such a short period of time! His hands were so warm and gentle that it didn't bother me at all. He says my scars show that I am stronger than most people, to have survived so much…_

Abe suddenly realizes he's grinding his teeth. He folds the paper with care, sets it on the table beside the pawn. He stares at the innocuous plastic figure for a long moment, then abruptly snatches it up and tosses it into the trashcan.

Weeks pass. No letter comes.

--------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I do not kiss him. I want to. My lips burn with wanting. But I don't. I do not want our time together to end.

We lie in bed together, Anthony and I, his arm around my waist. I think I am in love. Anthony shows the same gentle consideration when we make love as he did when he first examined my face. He knows every scar on my body in intimate detail. He says I am beautiful.

I have never let anyone get so close to me before, save for one. I feel a guilty pang at the thought of Abe. I haven't written to him in some time. He must be worried. _Assuming he even bothers to read them_, a snide voice whispers at the back of my mind. I try to ignore it. I hold up my hand, spread the fingers to see the webbing between them. If I write to him now, what do I say? _Hey, you'll never guess what happened. I met a great guy and we're sleeping together._ Augh! That'd go over well.

_Do you really think he'd care?_ the little voice snickers, _He's got more important things to think about than your adolescent love life._ Shut up.

Anthony rouses with a deep inhalation, stretches so his body presses against me. He nuzzles my neck. "What're you thinking about?" It's as if he can sense my troubled thoughts. Like someone else I know.

"Nothing," I tell him. I turn to plant a kiss on his forehead, his cheek, down the side of his neck. His skin is warm and has a faint salty taste. I wonder what his lips taste like. But if I kiss them, I will not be able to stop my gift from restoring his sight. To a blind man I am beautiful; to a man with functional eyes…

My attentions have awakened him fully. He pushes me onto my back with gentle but firm hands, his perfect mouth curved in a lovely smile as he lowers his head. Touch and taste and smell; these are all the senses he needs to explore my body. I have healed many rape victims. Their pain-filled memories still haunt my dreams. I have never experienced the joyful side of sexuality, even secondhand, until Anthony. I groan and arch my back, my troubled thoughts washed away in waves of pleasure.

*****************************************************************************************

**A/N:** Okay, I totally didn't plan that. I just started typing and the next thing I know Anthony makes his appearance. Makes me wonder where the heck this'll go before I get to the end (which, by the way, I already have drafted). Wherever it goes, it's sure to be an interesting ride. ;-)


	10. Lovingkindness

**A/N: **Well, here it is. For better or worse, this is the final chapter. I hope all you readers out there feel it was worth your time.

The brief dialog between Abe and Nuala is taken from the novelization of _The Golden Army_. The poem is _A Broken Appointment_ by Thomas Hardy, which I feel conveys its sense of unrequited love with tear-jerking success. And once again, the song lyrics are from _Suzanne_ by Leonard Cohen.

*******************************************************************************************************

**Disclaimer: I do not own any of the Hellboy or BPRD characters.**

*******************************************************************************************************

Time passes without the arrival of any new letters. Abe has all but given up. He conceals his sadness by diving into his work. Outwardly he seems unchanged, but his friends can tell the difference. It is why, despite the newness of their romance, Liz and Hellboy make an effort to spend time with him. Abe is grateful for the kindness, but it simply isn't the same. He misses Zaida's words, written in her sensible hand. Misses learning of her triumphs and tragedies, and all the mundane details that lie in between. Again and again his thoughts return to her last letter and to the object it came with, the memory it contained. He knows Zaida has found someone else to invest her emotions in. Selfishly, part of him hopes it will not last, while the rest knows she deserves some happiness in her life. _I'm happy for her,_ he tries to convince himself. Sometimes he almost believes it is so.

Then one day Abe meets a princess.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Through gentle persistence, Anthony persuades me to move in with him. We have already slept together, he reasons, so living together is the next logical step. I tell him again that I cannot stay forever. He says he understands, but I know he hopes to change my mind on this.

I sit at the desk in his modest study while he is at work. Among the many hobbies for which others are willing to pay him for, Anthony is a teacher of nineteenth century English literature. His walls are lined with bookshelves filled with classic works by authors long dead, each volume filled with clear plastic braille pages laid over the ordinary printed text. It reminds me of Abe's library. I am trying to write to him, but the words do not come. The area around the wastebasket is littered with the crumpled remains of my earlier failures. What do I say? The pen moves across the stationery Anthony has bought for me.

_I thought I was in love. I don't know when I realized the emotion wasn't my own, but I understand now. __You__ are the one who is in love. Who is this woman who's stolen your heart? Does she realize how lucky she is?_

I bite my lip in thought, tap the pen against the page, leaving tiny black specks against the pristine white. My other hand which holds the paper still is spread to reveal the delicate webbing between my fingers. I scrawl the next words without thought: _I miss you._ The page crumples and adds to the growing mess on the floor. I make a mental note to clean it all up before Anthony returns. I set the pen down, run my webbed fingers through my hair. I've let it grow these last few months. For years I kept my hair close-cropped to conceal my gender. I told myself it was for safety; that if someone ever found out about my gift, they would say it was a scarred man rather than a woman. Now I can admit the true reason; people look at a scarred man with marginally less revulsion than they do a scarred woman. A sad double-standard in what so many believe is an enlightened society. I think it's time to drop this minor subterfuge. When I was young I would weave my hair into braids that hung down in long, thin strands. Perhaps I will do this again.

I hear the front door open and hasten to clean up the discarded pages. I step out to the living room in time to see Anthony release Sam from his harness. The faithful Lab trots away to curl up in his doggy bed.

"Hey," Anthony grins, holding up a paper sack, "Got us some Chinese."

I smile, even though he cannot see it, and accept the food.

Later as we lie in bed, Anthony traces my features with his gentle fingers. "What's wrong?" Those hands of his are so deft at reading my moods.

"Nothing important. Just...homesick." I am surprised at my choice of the word. Homesick? But not for the island of my distant youth. I am not yet ready to consider my return there.

"Why don't you tell me about home?"

I lick my lips. It is dark in the bedroom; Anthony is just a silhouette beside me. I think of the confessionals Catholics use, how much easier it is to tell all to someone when you cannot see their face. Why is this?

"It's the people I miss, really."

"Like who?"

"Well," I hesitate, "There's one guy everybody calls Red."

"Is he Irish?" I can hear the grin in Anthony's voice.

I laugh. "I doubt it. He's tall and very, very muscular. Has a laid-back attitude towards life, loves old movies and cartoons, cold beer, and cats. He has lots of cats."

Anthony chuckles. "Sounds like quite a character. Who else?"

I tell him about Liz, Manning, and several other agents I'd met during my brief stay at the Bureau, though I do not tell him that they are all federal agents working for a secret agency that protects the world from mythical creatures. Though I cannot see his face, I know Anthony is listening to my every word with rapt attention. I can't remember the last time someone truly listened to me.

_Yes you can_, an angry voice whispers in the back of my mind followed by a memory of blue scales and large, dark eyes.

"Anyone else you haven't told me about yet?"

I do not want to say it. "Abe."

He must have heard something in my voice. His tone is more sober when he next speaks. "Tell me about him."

I turn away from his shadow. "I don't want to."

Silence stretches between us. The mattress shifts beneath me as Anthony rolls to his side, his back to me. I know he isn't angry, rather my mentioning of Abe has brought him a touch of sadness. It only makes the guilt that rises in me all the more painful.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

His first romance can be measured in mere hours. Within the span of that time, the peaceful moments few and far between, Abe discovers the joys of love and the tragedy of loss. He cradles the dying woman in his arms, her silken gown stained with amber blood. "I never had the chance to tell you...how I felt. I never had the chance..." But he knows that is a lie. Even in the brief time they knew each other, Abe had plenty of chances. It was fear that held him back. And now it is too late.

The princes smiles, lifts her hand. Even in her weakened state she moves with ethereal grace. "Give me your hand."

Without hesitation he rests his gloved palm against hers. Thoughts and emotions, memories and sensations, pass between the fish-man and the elf. It is then that each learns how the other feels, and Abe discovers Nuala's emotions mirror his own. The princess smiles in sorrowful regret. "It is beautiful."

"It's perfect," Abe agrees. He does not listen to Prince Nuada's final words; it is because of him that Nuala has done this to herself, sacrificed her life to save humanity from her twin's destructive vengeance. Abe cannot help but think that humanity is undeserving of such a selfless act. He watches in growing despair as Nuala closes her beautiful eyes for the last time and her body transforms, an elegant statue that was once a vibrant woman. Tears that Abe once thought himself incapable of shedding fall from his large eyes and patter against the statue's cheeks. He hears a crash as Nuada's corpse topples and shatters against the hard floor, but gives no reaction.

"Abe..." Liz's voice quavers in sorrow. Hellboy looks away, unable to offer solace to his friend.

Abe bends down to plant a kiss against his love's cold lips, an act he hadn't the courage to do when she lived. He will regret this for the rest of his life. He rises to his feet, descends the narrow steps to his friends' level. For one long moment they look at each other in silence. Then Abe whispers, his throat too tight with despair to speak aloud, "I can't do this anymore." He hangs his head and begins to weep. Liz, sobbing, hurries to embrace him. After a moment of uncertainty, Hellboy moves to lay his flesh-and-blood hand on the fish-man's trembling shoulder. Johan hangs back, his friendship with this odd trio still too new to offer his own comfort.

When Abe has no more tears to shed, the four of them leave the dead underground city to tell Manning that they are leaving the Bureau. They are through with the BPRD and its thankless work. They have risked their lives again and again for the safety of an ungrateful world, suffered the loss of friends and family. They've done enough. It is time for them to start living for themselves, though for Abe it is a decision made too late.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

"Julia...Julia..." A distant voice and a firm hand shakes me awake.

"What?" I sniff. It is early morning; pale sunlight filters through the curtains, providing just enough illumination to see Anthony's concern.

"You were crying in your sleep." He touches my face and I notice the wetness on my cheeks. The memory of my dream resurfaces, and with it the sorrow. I bury my face against Anthony's shoulder and cry. He strokes my hair and murmurs gentle words. Whatever questions he surely has he keeps to himself. One of his many kindnesses. It makes what I know must happen all the more painful; I am going to leave him.

Guilt makes me hold off the inevitable confrontation for most of the day. Only when Anthony returns from work do I muster the courage to tell him the truth. He enters the apartment in silence, as if he already knows. Maybe he does; one of the things that drew me to him in the first place was his perceptiveness. I wait for him to unharness Sam, then pat the sofa cushion beside me. "Could you sit with me, please? There's something I have to tell you."

Anthony quietly seats himself, feels around until he grasps my hand. "What's wrong?"

I lick my lips. "You remember I told you I couldn't stay forever?"

The slightest slump in his shoulders, a curve to his brow. "You're leaving."

"I'm sorry. I never meant to hurt you." I wince at the triteness of my words.

He pulls his hand away from mine, turns to face straight ahead so that I now look upon his profile. I am struck once again by how strikingly handsome he is. "Y'know," he sighs, "I thought if I could prove how much I care, you might just change your mind and stay with me."

"I'm sorry," I repeat the inadequate phrase.

Anthony shakes his head. "I know you have your reasons, though I'll be damned if I know what they are. You certainly have your share of secrets. Be lying if I said I wasn't curious." He turns his sightless eyes towards me. "But I never asked, because I respected your boundaries."

"Are you asking now?" I say quietly.

A short, bitter chuckle. "Would you answer if I did?"

_For you..._ I remain silent, knowing he will misinterpret.

"Thought so," he sighs.

My modest belongings are already packed in my duffel bag. It lies beside the sofa in a spot where Anthony's feet seldom tread. All I have to do is reach down. Instead I reach for him. He tries to lean away from my touch, but I am gently persistent. "There's something else," I tell him, "Something I need to do before I go."

There is suspicion and hurt in his expression. "What?"

I cup his face in my scarred, webbed hands, pull his face towards mine. Anthony resists at first, then his hands encircle my waist and he leans towards me with a mournful groan. Our lips meet in our first and only kiss.

Of all the wounds I've healed throughout the long years, neural damage terrifies me the most. What if I don't recover, or worse, wake up with permanent brain damage? Still, I do not hesitate to heal those who need it, regardless of the nature of their wounds. So far, I have always recovered.

I expect the darkness which floods in. What I do not expect is the discovery that Anthony's tumor has recurred, a mere cluster of abnormal cells no bigger than the head of a pin. Anthony has been unaware of this frightening development, and now he never has to know.

"Oh, God," I hear him gasp as my lethargy sets in, "Oh, sweet Jesus! Julia! I can see!"

I smile weakly. "I know." My body slumps against the sofa's back, head and eyelids drooping. Strong hands grasp my shoulders.

"Julia?" Fear and concern, but no disgust in his voice. Even with his sight restored, he does not recoil from me. I am more relieved by this than I expected to be. "Julia, what's wrong?"

"Nothing," I mumble, too exhausted to raise my voice.

"I-I think I should call an ambulance—"

"No," I slur, "Jus' let me sleep." My sightless eyes close as healing sleep overtakes me. I am dimly aware of the sensation of being lifted, carried from the room, and laid gently upon the bed I share with Anthony. Then there is only nothingness.

When I wake hours later, I am relieved to find my sight restored, at least to my unscarred eye. Anthony is seated in a chair beside the bed reading from one of his books, the plastic braille page pushed aside so that he can view the ordinary print. His head jerks up when I stretch. "You're awake."

I smile, push myself to a sitting position on the edge of the bed. "Taking advantage of your eyes, I see." My mouth quirks at the unintentional pun.

Anthony slides a bookmark between the pages and closes the book with undue care. He does not meet my eyes. "How long will it last?"

"Forever."

Now he does look at me, and I can see the anger. "You could've cured me the whole time."

It is not a question, but I reply all the same. "Yes."

"Why didn't you?"

I touch my face. "Selfishness."

His expression softens. He reaches out, touches my scarred cheek. "Thank you."

I nod, then rise on slightly shaky legs and step through the bedroom door. Anthony does not follow. I find my duffel bag where I left it, pick it up, sling it over my shoulder. Sam watches from his doggy bed in the corner. I pet him one last time, then leave the apartment without a backward glance. It is easier than I thought it would be.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hellboy finds himself once again locked in deadly combat. Sweat drips from his mighty brow, stinging flinty yellow eyes that squint in concentration. The tip of his long tail twitches in anticipation. The fingers of his stone hand wrap around his foe in an unbreakable grip while his flesh hand raises his weapon which glints in the light. With infinite care he inserts the head of the screwdriver into the bolt and gives it a turn.

From the relative safety of the doorway, Liz Sherman watches the giant red man complete his task, the assembly instructions clutched in her hands. Hellboy straightens with a satisfied grunt. "Finished!" He steps back to view his handiwork, absently throwing a meaty arm around the petite woman's shoulders. "Whadda y'think?"

Liz tilts her head, a slight frown creasing her brow. She searches for a diplomatic way of phrasing her next sentence. "Um…kinda crooked, isn't it?"

The hopeful look on her boyfriend's face slides off like a badly applied toupee. "Crooked?"

"Just a _little_," she hastens to clarify, though in truth the crib looks like it's designed to go in the Leaning Tower of Pisa.

The distinctive tectonic sound of Hellboy's teeth grinding fills the incomplete nursery. "I followed those damned instructions to the last stupid letter…" Though, of course, like all assembly instructions, they read as if they've been translated from English to Chinese to Spanish to Japanese to English and therefore make less sense than a metal band on acid and a lot less fun to listen to.

Liz grimaces in sympathy. "Maybe we should just order one that's already put together—"

"No way!" Hellboy snaps, "I've fought hellhounds and trolls and giant slimy gods with unpronounceable names! I've talked to reanimated corpses and beat an army of invincible robots! I've seen weird shit that'd make Schwarzenegger cry like a little girl and hide under his bed! And I'm _gonna put this crib together myself, dammit!_"

Liz sighs, unfazed by the demon's awesome fit of temper. "Fine, just don't knock down any walls if you lose it." She hands him the instructions and walks away. Already she can hear him muttering as he attempts to decipher the incomprehensible instructions. Liz smiles in amusement. She isn't even showing yet and the big red ape is already scrambling frantically to get everything ready as if the kids might pop out at any moment. It's gotten to the point that she actually has to hide the baby catalogs lest he make another impulsive purchase. Honestly, how many teething rings do a pair of twins really need? Then again, considering their interesting parentage, perhaps Hellboy is right in thinking they can't be too prepared.

The young pyrokinetic wanders through the still-unfamiliar house to the huge bay window overlooking the lake. Watching the water ripple in the breeze always relaxes her. To her left, around the inlet's gradual curve, she sees Abe's smaller house with its disproportionately large pier leading straight from the backdoor to the water. If she squints she can probably see the fish-man's blurred silhouette in the water. Abe spends a lot of time in the water lately; more than he ever did when they were all still part of the Bureau. Liz sometimes wonders why he even bothers with a house. But then, he does need someplace to keep all his books.

"Hey, Red," she calls over her shoulder, "Wanna ask Abe over for dinner tonight?"

"Yeah, sounds great," comes the demon's reply in a tone that lets the woman know he isn't even listening; too absorbed in his task. Liz rolls her eyes, then stares out at the water again. She's worried about Abe. Ever since Princess Nuala died the fish-man has put more and more distance between himself and the rest of the world. Sometimes days pass before Liz and Hellboy hear from him, and they live only a few hundred yards away! Yet even when they manage to drag their friend out of his self-imposed exile he seems only half there, just a sad echo of the person they once knew. Liz misses Abe's droll humor, his boundless patience with the often trying Hellboy, his willingness to listen to Liz's troubles, no matter how trivial. Liz wishes she knew how to help her friend, but Abe seems unwilling to ask for or accept any help from her or Hellboy. The one time she came out and asked the fish-man what he needed, he'd simply replied, "To be left alone."

Liz turns away from the view of the lake, no longer content to watch the waves.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

I decide to spent the night in a hotel; I still have some money left from my departure from the BPRD (God bless tax-free government hush money). It is while I unpack my stationery that I find Anthony's parting gift; three hundred dollars in twenties, the maximum withdrawal allowed for his ATM card. The money is folded inside a piece of paper. When I unfold it I discover it is a page torn from one of his books of poetry. I read the printed words:

_You did not come,_

_And marching Time drew on and wore me numb.—_

_Yet less for loss of your dear presence there_

_Than that I thus found lacking in your make_

_That high compassion which can overbear_

_Reluctance for pure lovingkindness' sake_

_Grieved I, when, a the hope-hour stroked its sum,_

_You did not come._

_You love not me,_

_And love alone can lend you loyalty;_

—_I know and knew it. But, unto the store_

_Of human deeds divine in all but name,_

_Was it not worth a little hour or more_

_To add yet this: Once, you, a woman, came_

_To soothe a time-torn man; even though it be_

_You love not me?_

The tears I did not feel the need to shed on my leaving come to me now. I let myself fall onto the room's narrow bed and sob into the stale-smelling pillow.

Later, when my tears are spent, I sit at the little table to compose two letters. The first I write to Anthony, telling him all the things I didn't have the courage to say to his face. It is as much a confession as an attempt to ease his sorrow. I can only hope it doesn't backfire and make him feel worse. I do not think it will, but I can never be sure. I know I'll never see him again to find out.

The second letter is far more difficult. I crumple nearly a dozen pages before I manage to organize my thoughts. I haven't written to him in so long. I am ashamed by this lapse, but I do not let myself shrink from this task now. Abe needs me now more than ever. I can feel this through our faint connection. Where there was startling new love and fearful joy, there is now overwhelming despair. My friend has suffered a tragedy, and my inability to comfort him breaks my heart. The pen scratches across the clean white paper, conveying as much empathy and compassion as I can manage through such an inadequate medium as words. Still, I know they are not enough. I pick up the folded poem. I hold it in my hands, imagine that my thoughts and feelings seep into the page. Then I fold it with the letter, put it in the envelope, and address it as always. I will mail both letters tomorrow after I check out.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Phil has been a mail carrier for the better part of twenty years. He cannot remember the last time he delivered this far out on his route. He's heard the rumors about the two lakeside cabins' new residents, but doesn't put any stock in them. Last month some loony swore up and down he saw a Loch Ness type monster raise its snaky head out of the lake and nobody took _him_ seriously. Still, as Phil pulled into the obviously neglected driveway, he can't help but glance around in case he might catch a glimpse of the red giant or the blue fish-man. Phil shakes his head and snorts at his own foolishness. He climbs the wooden steps onto the smaller cabin's wraparound porch and slides the single envelope through the mail slot. His task completed, the mail carrier turns and heads back to his vehicle. Along the way, his ears catch a faint _splash_ behind him, but he pays it no mind. Just some hungry fish going after a bug, he tells himself.

Abe peers around the corner of the house to watch the delivery van trundle away. He, Hellboy, and Liz seldom see anyone out here aside from the guy who delivers their groceries once a week. It's the main reason they all settled here. Not even the most tenacious reporters have made an appearance, thanks to the Bureau's efforts to ensure its former agents' privacy. Abe knows this peace cannot last forever, though he did not expect it to end so soon and in such an anticlimactic manner. Puzzled, he grabs the towel he left on the bench beside the sliding glass door and dries off the excess moisture. It is not his favorite sensation, drying off, but it is less of a hassle than mopping up the puddles on his floor—a chore he never suffered while in the BPRD where nearly a dozen individuals of lower rank were more or less at his beck and call. Once he no longer drips, Abe enters the modestly furnished cabin and heads for the front door where he finds the letter lying beneath the never-before-used mail slot. He feels a tingle of anticipation as he reaches for the envelope. Can it be? After all this time? He turns it face up, gasps in a mixture of relief and anxiety when he sees the familiar neat handwriting: _Abraham Sapien, c/o The Bureau of Paranormal Research and Defense..._ Even in his shock, Abe chuckles at the irony; a federally funded agency that doesn't officially exist, yet still has its own mailing address. At the bottom of the envelope in Manning's chicken-scratch are the words _Forward To_ and Abe's current address. He checks the postmark; less than a week old.

Why now, after so long? For a moment he is tempted to shred the letter without even reading it, but curiosity and—yes, loneliness—prompts him to do otherwise. He carries the envelope outside, sits on the edge of the pier with his long legs dangling into the sun-warmed water, and tears it open. The paper is different from the kind she used in her other correspondence, a higher quality white stationery with a pale green border. Yet her handwriting remains unchanged. There is a second page, smaller, which he sets aside for later. His eyes are drawn to Zaida's words.

_I had a strange dream last night_._ I stood in a forest of trees that were so tall I couldn't see their tops. Leaves as big as my hand and the color of ashes fell from the unseen boughs like confetti. When I walked my footsteps made a quiet shush-shush sound. I felt as if I was in a giant temple, that making even the slightest noise would violate its sacredness. Then I turned a corner and found a man kneeling by a clear pool. He was crying. I asked him why he was so sad. Instead of answering, he reached into the pool and lifted out the most beautiful statue I've ever seen, like something carved from clouded amber. "It is beautiful," the man sobbed, "It's perfect." And then he looked at me and I saw that he had your eyes. It made my loneliness so unbearable I woke in tears._

_Where are you now, Abe? When I watched the news this afternoon it said that Hellboy left the Bureau along with some of his fellow agents. Were you one of them? The idea frightens me, because you might not get my letters anymore. Isn't that silly? All the times I've written to you and you couldn't answer because I keep moving, and now that you're the one who's no longer staying in one place, I feel close to panic. Knowing you were there, imagining you reading my letters, has been the only stability in my life, as if at any time I could drop it all and come rushing back to you. Are you alright? I've always been too afraid to ask, even though I know you can't answer. But I need to ask now, because somewhere inside me I can feel the answer. You're not alright. Something's happened. I wish I could be there to take your pain away, even if it means just holding your hand. But all I have are these words. I'm sorry, Abe. I'm so sorry I haven't written to you all this time. Sorry for the loss I know you've suffered. I know you feel more alone right now than you ever have in your life, but you're not alone. I carry you with me in my thoughts, in the webbed hands I am looking at as I write these words, and in my heart. Just as I know you carry me in yours. Remember that, Abe. No matter how wide the space between us, we will always be connected._

Abe folds the letter carefully, tucks it back into its envelope, then picks up the smaller page to read its contents. It is not the poem that moves him, but the sensations he absorbs from the paper it is written upon. Like all the small tokens Zaida sent, Abe relives a moment in her life; waking from her sorrowful dream, her farewell kiss to Anthony and subsequent departure, her desire for forgiveness for neglecting their friendship. Her unspoken, unwritten words: _I miss you._ Tears spill from Abe's large eyes. He used to wonder whether or not he could weep, and now it seems he cannot stop. But this time the sadness holds a far less bitter edge. He knows he does not carry this burden alone.

Distant shouts draw his attention to the larger house across the little inlet. Despite his tears, Abe smiles. He slips over the side of the pier, swims across the calm waters towards the neighboring house. He walks ashore, climbs the steps to the back deck, and knocks politely on the door.

_"What!"_ the massive bellow rattles the windows. The door jerks open and a massive red form blots the light from within. "Oh," Hellboy blinks, startled by this unexpected arrival. He visibly struggles for a less threatening tone, "Hey, Blue."

"Trouble?"

The demon waves his stone hand dismissively. "Nah! Just picking out baby names. Y'know how it is."

Abe, who hasn't a clue how such things are, nods. "So…decide on anything?"

"Well, we both decided on at least one boy name. Trevor."

The fish-man smiles, unsurprised by the choice of Professor Broom's name. "But what if you have _two_ boys?" They are expecting twins, after all.

Hellboy grimaces. "Well—"

"We are _not_ naming our son Champ!" comes a yell from inside the house.

Hellboy turns and booms over his shoulder, "I already said alright!" He turns back to his quietly amused friend, rolls his yellow eyes. "Women."

"Er, perhaps I can help?"

The demon shrugs one massive shoulder, concealing his elation that his friend finally seems to be coming out of his shell. "Sure. Why not? Could always use a referee. C'mon in."

After drying off with a towel Red brings him, Abe seats himself on the couch beside Liz whose belly is already beginning to thicken. Unlike Hellboy, she does not hide her joy in seeing their friend. Beaming, she hands him a book aptly titled _Baby Names_. "I was thinking something like Brooke if one of them's a girl."

"Great," Hellboy smirks, "That way if she talks too much everybody can call her 'Babbling Brooke.'"

"Oh, c'mon! You didn't like Abigail. You didn't like Madeline—"

"I'm not naming my kid after an advice columnist and a cheesy little French schoolgirl—"

While they argue, Abe idly pages through the thick book. Lola, Miriam, Nadine… He flips through until he reaches the Z's. It doesn't take him long to find it.

**Zaida: Arabic, "Fortunate."** Abe smiles.

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Once, a few short years ago, I formed a connection to a rare and wondrous being. He used this connection to find me when I was held against my will, and now I am using it to seek him out. It is like a faint tug at the back of my mind, a fragile thread guiding my steps. I do not follow right away; I give him time to mourn. Then, months later, I find my way.

It has been a long journey, one which I've traveled since long before I ever met my friend. I once believed it to be endless, but now I know differently. Every journey ends, one way or the other. I have decided it's time to end mine.

It is beautiful, this place he now calls home. The still lake shines in the brilliant sun, reflecting the world around it like a gigantic mirror. I approach the two houses situated on either side of a small inlet. An errant breeze ruffles my hair, grown long enough for me to braid it in several loose strands as I did when I was young. The long, baggy shirt I typically wear is tied around my waist. I am clad in a simple white T-shirt, my scarred arms bare in the warm daylight, my face unhidden by a hood's shadow. I pass the first house. There is a family playing in the yard; two little infants, as unique as their deeply loving parents who laugh at their happy antics. The children continue playing as the man and woman pause to watch me pass. Out here, a new arrival is a rare sight indeed. Their mouths hang open in shock as recognition alights in their eyes. I raise my hand in a friendly wave, webbing stretched taut between my fingers. The man raises his stone hand in return, face slack with shock, while the woman laughs in wonder. I do not pause, but continue towards the second, smaller house. I hear music as I approach, pouring from the open windows. I smile as I recognize the tune and begin to hum along.

I walk to the back of the house, climb the low steps onto the deck, set my bag down by the open backdoor, and stride down the length of the pier. When I reach the end I lie on my stomach, stretched out on the sun-warmed boards, and stare down into the cloudy lake water. There is only the soft breeze, the scent of the water, and the music.

_And just when you mean to tell her_

_That you have no love to give her,_

_Then she gets you on her wavelength_

_And she lets the river answer_

_That you've always been her lover._

_And you want to travel with her,_

_And you want to travel blind_

_And you know that she will trust you_

_For you've touched her perfect body with your mind._

A shadow slowly rises through the murk. Two large eyes the dark blue of a twilit sky. I do not flinch away as the familiar head breaks the surface. We stare into each other's eyes, the fish-man and I, so close we nearly touch. Abe's smile displays that cute little gap between his teeth. I've missed it so much.

"Hi," he says, hardly above a whisper.

I smile at my dearest friend. "Hi."


End file.
